Longitude
by pinkbagels
Summary: Lord Cutler Beckett may believe his powerful position is secure, but he's about to discover some unsettling facets of the future thanks to the business of Historical Reconstructionism.
1. Chapter 1

**NOTE: This story is complete at my livejournal. All links to chapters can be found here: pink-bagels./27153.html**

Longitude--chapter one

Author: pinkbagels

Summary: Lord Cutler Beckett may believe his powerful position is secure, but he's about to discover some unsettling facets of the future thanks to the business of Historical Reconstructionism.

A cheerful stream of sunlight bathed the flagship Endeavour in golden hues, and Lord Cutler Beckett surveyed the regal beauty of his ship, his hands clasped firmly behind his back as he approached the upper deck. A formal tea setting had been prepared for him as per his instructions, and he seated himself at the small table with all the restraint and delicacy that would befit a man of royalty. As rightly he should have, Beckett thought, for with each step he took in the right direction, the closer he came to those higher, inner circles of power. His current position as Commander of the Endeavour was already a coveted one, yes, but it was still a position of flux depending on his success at sea. No, Beckett thought, what he duly needed was the stability of a permanent post, and to obtain this he need gain even further favours from those in power above him.

The company was as close to the king as he was currently going to get, and though he had no wish for such lofty political office, he did have a longing for a governor's post and considerable land as recompense for being so far from his English shores. A warm climate would be welcome, perhaps somewhere in India. This latest mission ensured a sizeable reward, one made of a sprawling, successful estate that he could boast of in quality company. The morning air was still cool on his skin, and he turned his face towards the breeze. These were good ambitions.

They were in warmer waters now, and this early morning sun gave the ship's current enterprise a positivity it didn't deserve. By mid afternoon the true nature of this warmth would come about as a searing heat which would no doubt blanket them in its suffocating insistence. The Endeavour crew would suffer beneath the thickness of their wool coats, the warm waters and air refusing to collect even the slightest breeze for their relief, wrapping them instead in a pickling humidity. The forecastle of the ship would be bathed in their sweat, the stench of human contact unbearable.

Beckett sipped his tea, thankful for the fact his private cabin managed to always find a wayward breeze.

It was this small, insignificant detail that had become a point of interest for the black clad figure that moved, unnoticed, behind Beckett and his officers in the far vicinity of Beckett's private cabin. As Beckett sipped his tea, thinking on the spoils of his efforts and the future visit he must pay to his favoured tailor in France to adjust the cut of his trousers, the unknown stowaway picked open the window that so kindly often let in that welcome air, and slipped over its sill and into the confines of Beckett's cabin with all the grace of an underfed leech.

"Sir."

Annoyed that his morning tea ritual had been disturbed, Beckett placed his cup carefully back on its saucer, the corner of his mouth daintily dried with a crisp, lace-edged square of white linen. A thin shadow cut across his table, obscuring that delightful morning light.

"It's done, sir," Norrington said. Though he had used the proper words, there was no measure of respect in his address. 'Sir' had been spat from his gut at Beckett like a hag's curse.

Beckett was unmoved by the sentiment. "Excellent. I trust you have taken care of the body?"

Norrington's mouth was a twisted sneer. "Governor Swann deserves no less than a a proper burial," he said. "He was a good man."

"On the contrary," Beckett said, pouring himself a fresh cup of tea. "He was a traitor who associated closely with pirates. So closely, in fact, his own daughter has opted to make a career out of lawlessness. If he were on land, he'd have been thrown onto the traitorous heap with the others of his ilk. As we are at sea, toss his carcass overboard, and let the fish give him his eulogy."

Norrington's upper lip quivered in rage, but he wisely held his tongue.

"He's just dying to kill me," Beckett thought with no small amount of amusment. "Yet he won't because it would mean his final ruin."

"Admiral Norrington, as has so clearly been made evident, you did make your choice," Beckett reminded him. "Though perhaps you are still tainted by your experiences, I don't think I have to remind you that a fresh set of clothes and a piece of paper do not constitute what currently gainfully employs you. As an officer of the Endeavour, you are expected to act on behalf of her interests, and especially the interests of the company who owns her."

Norrington could hardly hold back his sneer. "The East India Trading Company has yet to show me something worth respecting," he said. "In fact, it seems hell bent on murdering the concept of decency."

"Careful," Beckett replied, his teaspoon dipped in sugar. "Your anarchy is showing. Perhaps you are regretting your decision to give up being a 'free' man." He closed his eyes as he brought his steaming teacup to his lips, its contents laced with fresh sweetness. "The concept of 'freedom' is for people like Jack Sparrow--People who have no hope for the future and nothing in the present. It is far more comfortable to live a civilised life like ours, Norrington." He took a delicious sip, his eyes closed in bliss. "No one can call you a coward for understanding that."

A large splash could be heard from the stern of the ship, and Beckett placed his tea cup back on its saucer, his demeanour cool. "It seems your little problem has already been resolved," Beckett said. "Mercer, bring me my logbook. I shall be sure to record the event, and have a death certificate issued immediately."

His logbook was dutifully placed in front of him, his quill and ink ready to inscribe with officious, cold purpose. But Norrington refused to leave, his presence casting an uncomfortable shadow that blotted out Beckett's much needed sunlight.

"Governor Swann is being put to rest starboard," Norrington said.

Beckett didn't touch his quill and ink. The blank pages before him remained in dark shadow, their sepia edges curling in the soft, morning breeze. On the far starboard side of the ship, Governor Swann's body was still shrouded, waiting for its burial beneath the unforgiving waves the sea.

"Alert the crew," Beckett said to Mercer, keeping his eyes riveted on Norrington as he spoke. "Find the stowaway."

"Interesting term," Norrington said to Beckett. "Is that what you call the lackeys of Davy Jones who keep crawling onto this ship?"

"No one comes onboard the Endeavour without my clearance," Beckett said to him. "Anyone who tries will hang."

Norrington smirked at this. He descended the small flight of stairs that separated Beckett from the main deck. Sunlight bore down on Beckett with a vengeance, blinding him.

"You can't hang the dead," Norrington said.

It was quite an effort to pull the creature from the water, and it certainly put up enough of a struggle to escape. In the end, it was two nets that caught it properly, and like the partial fish the monster was, the unholy soul found itself trapped within the woven squares of a sailor's knots, ready to be pulled onboard and gutted.

Beckett was incensed. The ownership of Davy Jones's heart had sealed a deal between them, one which said, unequivocally, that Beckett was in charge of the vile, undead pirate and his influence over the seas. The arrangement was not meant to be an opening for the miserable dead bound to Jones's ship to opt for mutiny aboard the Endeavour. It had become an increasing problem as of late, especially among Jones's newly dead, who still had ignorance over the confines of their otherworldly fate.

This creature seemed to be more seasoned, however, if its ghastly appearance told anything. Shining, oily looking black skin covered it from head to toe, making it look like a slimy eel. The skin itself was difficult for his men to hold onto, and the creature kept slipping from their grasp. A clank of metal aroused Beckett's morbid curiosity as they his officers worked to untangle the unfortunate soul from the nets, and he saw that the thing had two large cylinders made of what appeared to be steel growing from its back. It turned its face towards him, and he had to fight the gasp of disgust at how its eyes were fused into a solid panel of black glass, and its mouth a complicated mess of black tentacles that grew out from it. It rolled frantically within the nets as it tried to free itself, an ominous hiss pouring from the cylinders that cruelly dug into its back. A compass lay embedded between them, pointing due East--perhaps this unfortunate soul's last destination. There was no semblance of man left in this thing, Beckett knew. Its soul was now nothing more than a vehicle for Davy Jones's rage.

"If you are searching for mercy, you won't find it here," Beckett announced to the struggling creature. "Though I suspect that is not the reason you have tainted my ship with your presence. When you return to your place in the bowels of The Flying Dutchman, I suggest you give Davy Jones a message--One more insurgency against my vessel and I will slowly suffocate that miserable heart of his and give him a taste of what oblivion really feels like. There are to be no more visits from such disgusting, rotted sea rats such as yourself--Understood?"

"Lord Beckett, sir," Mercer said. He held out a large, black bag made of a shiny material. "It had this with it, sir."

Beckett took the bag from him, and frowned as he observed how the water beaded upon the bags surface like morning dew. He opened it and though it had been in the water the inside of the bag was perfectly dry.

"What new witchery is this?" Beckett dared to ask.

The creature let out a miserable howl. It broke free of the netting, and rose to its full height, an impressive stature that was a good few inches taller than Norrington. Six feet, perhaps, Beckett mentally measured, give or take an inch. A monstrous giant with long, black webbed feet that were clearly more accustomed to being underwater than on land as its wobbling gait suggested. It clawed at its own face with its black hands, a mournful, garbled growling being all that was left of its speech.

With one forceful yank the monster ripped the black tentacles from his mouth, an action that made even Mercer turn his head in disgust.

The thing took a long, hoarse, and seemingly thankful breath.

Beckett remained cool. "I have to wonder, just what is it in this bag that has so captured the attention of Jones that he sends his decaying lackey to find it? I imagine a pirate under the thumb of a dead man's curse for all eternity has more than just his heart up his sleeve. What shall I find here, I wonder? A lock of hair with unexpected supernatural properties? A gold tooth? An enchanted ring?"

Mercer reached into the bag and pulled out a large, white, rotund object. Beckett took it from him, his confusion transparent.

"A...Chamber pot?"

Beckett took it from Mercer and turned it over in his hands, noting with no small amount of consternation that not only was this hardly an item that would retain magical qualities, it was also his own. Curious, he reached into the black bag and took out more of its contents. A broken compass. Four death certificates of no one of import. An outdated map of Asia that he had been meaning to dispose of. A piece of loosened tile from his fireplace mantle. Nothing of value lay within the black bag, if anything it was all so much trash, and most of it his own. The silver tea set had been conspicuously avoided, as had his gold cuff links, his new chronometer and his safe that held the sums for their current expedition.

For reasons he couldn't quite define, the fact that his junk had been prized over that which he valued made him feel deeply offended.

"Toss that thing overboard," he said to his men, dismissive.

But before they could grab it, the creature reached up and pulled off its black window that had served as its eyes. Then, with alarming ease, it ripped its own black, slimy skin from its head, revealing not the contents of its skull, but a thick tumble of dry, black and red streaked hair.

Ignoring the blank stares it had earned, the creature, now significantly more human, slipped its webbed feet off, and stood barefoot and far more securely on the surface of the deck. Oddly tall and muscular, there was still no mistaking the tell-curves of hips and swell of an ample bosom to indicate that no, this creature was not a man, but a rather imposing woman. Large, intelligent green eyes shrewdly took in her surroundings with naked contempt.

"Ah, the eighteenth century. The Age of Reason, where superstition gave way to the obvious superiority of intellect and science," she said. "And yet they'll still hang you for stealing a piss-pot."

Her voice was sultry in its cadence, Beckett noted, but there was no cockney within it. Confidence had formed every word, and there was even an aura of privilege about her that Beckett couldn't help but respond to.

"I see Sparrow has sent us a fish of his own," Beckett said to her.

"Sparrow? No. Sadly, I've never met him. " She smoothed a thick lock of hair out of her sight, her eyes searching the deck around her. She let out a weary sigh. "Where is she?"

"Who?" Beckett asked.

"Mother," she said, a note of despondence in her speech. She kicked the nets that had previously bound her aside, her toes searching through them. "I seem to have misplaced her. Believe you me, much as I would love to jump overboard and be done with the lot of you, I'm afraid I can't go anywhere without her."

She sighed and placed a hand on her hip, the black skin of the suit she wore hugging her body so closely she might as well have been standing in the nude. She shielded her eyes against the morning glare of the sun, taking in her surroundings with all the ease of a well seasoned mariner.

"Is that tea?" she asked, pointing to Beckett's breakfast table.

It was with some protest that his 'guest' took the wool overcoat offered her by Norrington, its sleeves ending a few inches above her wrist, the shoulders far too narrow for her healthy frame. The cotton shirt she wore beneath it was a better fit, if not due to the fact it was supposed to be loose. The trousers had, of course, proved a problem, and while they fit her somewhat snugly at the waist, the hem stubbornly curled over her knees, rendering them naked. Beckett did his best not to stare, though it was clearly an effort for many of the men of his crew who hadn't had the company of a woman for months. With an uncomfortable cough, Beckett removed the tablecloth from the tea setting, and placed it over the woman's scandalously shapely legs.

He poured her a cup of tea, but the woman ignored it, being far too preoccupied with scratching her arms.

"Damn, I knew this thing would be full of fleas.."

Beckett ignored the comment and placed a white napkin neatly in his lap. "I take it as a mortal being you suffer from the usual ailments--thirst and hunger." A large, silver domed platter was brought to the table its steaming contents of potatoes and heavily seasoned beef revealed with pompous flourish.

"A bit heavy for breakfast, don't you think?" his guest observed.

"One must keep up one's strength," Beckett replied, eagerly digging in. "Now, tell me again. Just what exactly is your employ?"

"Historical reconstructionist," she replied.

"Interesting term," Beckett said as he placed a healthy amount of potatoes on his plate. "I suppose it sounds better than 'pirate'." He smiled and dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his starched white napkin. "We seem to have forgone some of the usual formalities of guests who dine together, one of which being that I do not yet know your name."

"Larry," she said.

Beckett coughed, doing his best to hide his amusement.

"Larry is a man's name," he told her.

"It's the fault of my father's family traditions. My great-grandfather started it, he named all of his children after notable ancestors. This went on for a couple of generations, and of course the only name left by the time it got round to me was Larry." She poured herself a half a cup of tea, and inspected it carefully before drinking it. "Apparently, that ancestor lost both his arms and an eye in an explosion."

"So, I expect your family gave you the moniker One-Eyed Armless Larry," Beckett said, amused.

"No," she replied, staring back at Beckett as though he were an imbecile. "They called me Larry."

"Well...," Beckett said, raising a brow as he took another slice of beef. "I am..."

"Lord Cutler Beckett. Yes, of course I know who you are," she impatiently said. She stared at his fork, wincing at every chew he took of his food.

"Is there something wrong?" Beckett asked.

"I've been in your galley," Larry said. "There's enough flies there to start a plague and I don't think your cook has washed his hands since the century started." She made a face and gingerly poked at the food before her with a knife. "Just how old is this beef? It looks a little gamey to me."

"Not old," Beckett said, shrugging. "Only a couple of weeks."

Larry fixed him with a stony glare.

"I'll just stick to the potatoes, thanks," she said.

"Keeping away the scurvy," Beckett observed.

"Among other things," Larry replied. She sighed, poking her potatoes with her fork. "Without Mother I have no access to antibiotics and the vaccinations only take care of so much. Sorry if this offends you, but the eighteenth century is hardly a hallmark of cleanliness. It's all sweat, piss, lice and syphilis."

Beckett choked on his mouthful of food, and it was only after several indelicate gulps of tea that he managed to ease it down his throat.

"Yet, Mother, as you call her, sent you here," he said, regaining his composure. "Mother, who is still somewhere on my ship."

"Yes."

"You were sent..to steal my chamber pot."

Larry sighed, and pushed her food away from her. "I know it's impossible for you to understand, in all honesty even I don't understand it. I mean, sure, Colin and Justin now say Baroque is the thing, but personally, I find all that gaudy, curly gold gilded mess tacky." She leaned back in her chair, her arm draped over the back of it in a casual pose more befitting a man than a woman. "Let's put it this way--I'm a bit of a fortune teller. And hunter. I get a good look at what's valued in future markets, and I'm their main supplier. For me, the more devalued the items I pick up in their time, the better--I get a better profit margin that way. For instance, your piss-pot is just about worthless to you now, because to you it's common, everyday and maybe even a little embarrassing. But someday, piss-pots will be in very limited supply, specifically piss-pots from the 18th century. They are ceramic, and weren't exactly designed to last for four hundred years..."

"It would be a rather unusual inheritance for my lineage," Beckett agreed.

"You're not taking me seriously," Larry said, annoyed. "Imagine, if your narrow little brain is capable of such an act, one of the far removed ancestors freed from the Wicked Wench commissioning someone to find your chamber pot. Imagine, if you can, being paid over forty-thousand pounds for the purchase of your piss-pot so this distant ancestor can regale his company with the tale of how his forefather was rescued from Lord Cutler Beckett's slave ship--Lord Cutler Beckett, a man who now has no money, no life, no respectable legacy and not even, my dear friend, the very pot he pissed in!"

Beckett's appetite was effectively quashed. He pushed his plate away and snapped his fingers to have the table cleared. The cheerful morning sun had now given way to the ensuing onslaught of heat, but Beckett had no problem remaining cool beneath it.

"You can tell your 'Mother', otherwise known as Jack Sparrow, that his ridiculous ransom of forty-thousand pounds will never be paid. In fact, he will not get anything so much as a half-penny for the promise of your freedom."

Larry nodded her head, as if understanding. "What the hell are you talking about?" she asked.

"This coded language of yours, interesting though it is, is not so hard to decipher. Wicked Wench. Forty-thousand pounds. Mother and you. I wonder, just how important do you think you are to Jack when he would so easily abandon you to your fate? I hate to be the one to tell you this, but...You are not the first woman to be betrayed by him, just ask Elizabeth Swann..."

"You don't believe me," an angry Larry replied. Her sharp green eyes flashed with fury, and Beckett had to wonder just how she fit into the Jack puzzle. She certainly didn't give him the impression she was subject to naiveté, and though she was a tad ignorant of polite graces, she was no village wench. She was Jack's lover perhaps, though some instinct in Beckett told him this was unlikely. She looked far too capable of smacking Jack into oblivion.

"No wonder the books paint you so harshly. You really are an asshole."

Beckett motioned to his officers, and whispered over his shoulder to Mercer. "She's clearly insane. Let her finish her tea and then take her to the brig. Try to ensure the officers do not treat her too harshly." He set his napkin upon the table, his hands resting comfortably in his lap.

"Books," he said to her, knowing full well she could not possibly afford such luxuries. "What, pray tell, do they say of me?"

She grabbed the strange, waterproof and paper thin black bag she had crawled onboard his ship with, and pulled out a thick, flimsy yellow volume which she then slammed in front of him.

"See for yourself," she spat at him. "I've taken the liberty of bookmarking it."

Curious, Beckett picked up the flimsy volume, its cover made of a material that seemed to be paper, but was only slightly thicker. It was coloured in bright yellow hues, with a strange, childish black and white ink drawing of what appeared to be a man pointing at a slate board.

"18th Century History For Dummies," Beckett read aloud. Frowning, he turned to the page she had marked with a piece of thick, waxy paper. There were stains on the pages, rings of what looked to be tea in the upper right hand corner. The piece of paper she had used to hold her place in the book had the word 'starbucks' written on it in bold, green letters. He scanned the page, finding a small history of the East India Trading Company comprising most of its bulk and there, beneath it all in a typeface so small he could barely read it, was a footnote:

_"Lord Cutler Beckett was a slave trader of minor note and is known most famously for his zealotry against pirates. Many innocent men, women and children were executed without trial under the suspicion of piracy for a period of two weeks. It is believed that Beckett's hatred of pirates began with his dealings with the infamous pirate Captain Jack Sparrow, who had freed a cargo ship of slaves while under Beckett's employ. Beckett's ire was short lived, however, as he died mere weeks after instigating his 'war on piracy', succumbing to a severe bout of dysentery in 1772._

_see chapter seven, 'Noble Pirates', pages 37-48"_

Beckett fumed. "What slander is this?"

"I tried to warn you," Larry said. "Don't get mad at me, I didn't write your history."

She gave Beckett a dismissive shrug.

"You did."


	2. Chapter 2

Longitude--chapter two

As evening set upon the Endeavour, the cool welcome of darkness brought with it a shroud of mist that covered the ship from stem to stern. The mist twined along the decks with smooth fingers, prying into open doors and into tiny cracks within knots of wood. It crept into the sleeping quarters of the officers with all the damp chill of a succubous meeting her victim and lover.

Beckett lay in his bed, his knees drawn up tight against his stomach, misery twisting his gut and soul into all manner of horrific shapes. The cloying mist that had found its way throughout the ship had now found his room and it blanketed his quarters with a heady damp that did nothing to alleviate the stench of vomit that had leached into the very pores of his wooden confines. His nausea worsened, he sank further beneath the wool blanket covering him, his brow sweating profusely though he felt as though nothing could alleviate him from the cold chills that overtook him. He closed his eyes, holding his nausea in, doing his best to die with at least some semblance of dignity.

Of course, this was the doing of that wicked harpy who had stowed away upon his ship, the woman who was Sparrow's agent, he was sure on it. He had never thought Jack would be one to resort to murder, but perhaps he had been short-sighted in his thoughts on what the man was truly capable of. That it had been implemented so easily caused Beckett no small amount of chagrin. If he managed to survive he'd be sure to add attempted murder to Larry's charges along with the thievery. He'd been such a fool--had she not openly avoided the beef? She'd so much as told him she'd poisoned him.

The Endeavour was quiet. He'd given strict orders not to be disturbed as he was so ill, and too late did he realise that this decision had not been a wise one. He brought his hand to his mouth and swallowed back the bile that threatened to spill once more. His stomach furiously railed at him for the insult.

Through the hazy focus of a fever, Beckett noted something yellow poking out from beneath his bed. With what little strength he had, he pulled the strange book out and into the bed with him, his mind searching for any recollection of how it had arrived in his room. He thumbed through its thin, white pages, the odd typeset and shocking contrasting black ink swirled into incomprehensible phrases as he tried to read. Books, as Beckett had understood them, were usually precious items and were not normally so grievously abused as this volume had been. Several paragraphs had been underlined in a bright, pink ink, and the margins were riddled with ink notes of all colours, their coded meaning lost on Beckett as he read them.

In red ink, in the upper left hand corner was a small list: "Drill--fourteen pounds fifty. Scaffolding--two hundred pounds (rental). Call Anna for for quotes on extension, cell #328--0997."

The rest of the margins were cluttered with various names and numbers mixed together making a strange pattern that was too random to have been scribbled there without purpose. "Charlie--887-0088 ext. 56. Rope for pulleys--1857--99p." A nauseous turn overtook him, and he flipped forward a few pages in the book for what he hoped would work as a further distraction against his illness.

He had found a page of illustrations, some so amazingly life-like it was as though the moment they portrayed had been captured in its immediacy and transferred directly onto paper. He glanced over the various cross-sections of ships which were laid out like maps, with every detail exposed for anyone who wished to know their innermost secrets. There were drawn models of officers and their ranks, even those in casual dress, every button and sleeve annotated in precise detail, as though the clothes themselves were part of a human being's anatomy. The yellow book was a strange dissecting tool, Beckett realised, a surgical approach to his history.

His stomach tightened the wench within his gut, and he let the book fall to the floor as he curled into a tighter ball. He was so thirsty, and yet the thought of quenching that need sent his body into paralysing spasms.

A dark shadow flickered past his window, to grow in size as it made its way to the front door of his cabin, its height so great it had to duck to get in, and even in doing so the shadow still banged its forehead on the door's frame.

"Dammit," Larry said, rubbing her head. "I swear, this place is made for midgets."

Beckett's stomach did another agonising turn, and he spewed into the bucket next to his bed, wishing death upon the effort. Wiping his mouth delicately with his lace handkerchief, he wondered if some words from the Good Book were worthy, if not necessary, for contemplation at this dark hour. But the only litany that came to mind were the cold, clipped sentences of a footnote, his stomach souring further at the choice of words that were his legacy.

"Minor importance..." he hoarsely whispered. "Zealot...succumbed..."

She was busy in his room, taking his precious trash into her magic, waterproof sack. The maps were made quick work of, though he wondered why she didn't wait until morning and get his own death certificate in the bargain. He wasn't so sure she'd still want his chamber pot in its current condition, however. For a fleeting moment, he thought about sounding the alarm, for demanding she be arrested and hung for her heinous crime against himself, but the expenditure of energy this would take was far too much for Beckett to endure. It was all he could do to simply watch her steal from him like the carrion crow she was while his misery whittled him down into nothingness.

To his surprise, she really did take the chamber pot, if the litany of curses at its contents told him anything. There was a brutally cold breeze let into his room as his cabin window was opened, and a cursing splash as the pot was emptied out of it.

"You've escaped," he managed to say.

She paused at the window, the outline of her body in cameo against the grey clouds that rolled upon the horizon. Through his feverish understanding, Beckett couldn't help but note that she was not an unseemly creature, and despite her odd height, daintiness had been replaced with strong symmetry.

"It didn't take much," she answered him. "You don't exactly have complicated security systems. All I needed was a wooden splinter and spit."

"I see," Beckett said, closing his eyes. He could taste the tension in his cabin as she made quick work of the rest of his 'artefacts', her movements as speedy as any pickpocket. "You have murdered me and now you are taking your spoils. You are a pirate after all."

"I didn't murder you," she said. She took the handkerchief he had held at his mouth and wrapped it in tightly in several pieces of paper before dropping it into her water resistant sack. "Labs," she said by way of explanation. "They have this thing about studying ancient diseases. I can get a very good commission for vintage influenza."

"You poisoned me."

"I did no such thing. You ate bad meat riddled with botulism. Don't say I didn't warn you."

She tied the bag shut with a tight knot and slung it over her shoulder, with the chamber pot held in her free hand. Using her foot, she nudged the cabin window open, and then hoisted her leg up onto its ledge. She paused, her breath held in the darkness, her leg dropping from its position back onto the floor.

"Forgot something?" Beckett weakly asked her. He gestured helpfully over his shoulder. "I believe there is a cracked, mouldy teacup on the back shelf. There's pins in it."

"18th century pins..." Larry said to herself, seeming to consider it. She readjusted the black bag on her shoulder and raised her leg onto the windowsill once again. "I just need the proper leverage," she explained. Her foot slipped and fell to the floor and she nearly toppled backward into the wall with her sack. Her shadowed outline stood at his window, her hand firmly on her hip.

"There's worse ways to die," she told him, her voice haughty. "I don't know what you're so whiny about."

Beckett moaned, and swallowed, his throat a collection of sand. "I'm not whining," he managed to croak.

"You could have had a long, miserable run with cancer, for instance. Or, maybe you could have been tortured to death, that's not a very nice way to go, not with getting your skin slowly peeled off--believe me, it's not a pleasant method."

"I'm sure," Beckett agreed.

"Just be happy you aren't dying at the hands of the Inquisition. Think about that, why don't you?"

"I'll be sure to," Beckett said.

"Besides, if the tables were turned, you'd be more than happy to leave me to die."

"Of course," Beckett whispered.

"Well, I'm glad we understand each other," Larry said, considerably cheered by their conversation. She hoisted the sack onto her back and swung her leg onto the windowsill.

"Dammit," she said, her foot teasing the shutter, tapping it open and closed. "I promised Mother, I won't do this." She swung her leg out of the window as far as her knee. "I won't mess up another longitude like the last time. I won't be paying Mother any more of her damned penalties..."

Larry dropped the sack to the floor, her leg swung back in and firmly meeting the other as she leaned against the wall opposite Beckett's bed. "I have to warn you, I have a terrible disease," Larry said to him.

Beckett frowned at this, wondering what sordid detail was about to be revealed, and despite his imminent demise a rather untoward thrill coursed through him at the unsavoury thoughts her sentence produced.

She approached his bed, her face lit up by the candlelight from his bedside table. Her dark hair framed her face, her large green eyes looking him over with what he could almost believe to be concern. She was most definitely a creature of shadows, Beckett thought, for the flickering candlelight cast every strong feature into a softer relief. There was more femininity present when she was close to that dancing flame. He sighed in blissful contentment when her palm met his forehead, the clean scent of her skin such a contrast to his feverish sweat and the warmth of her touch as soothing as chloroform.

"I've got a terminal case of ethics," she said.

"How very terrible for you," Beckett whispered.

He closed his eyes as her palm slid down his forehead to the side of his face and then warmly cupping the underside of his neck. Such an intimate embrace, Beckett thought, such sweet smelling skin...

She pulled her hand away, leaving only the sickening cold behind.

"You need a saline IV for hydration and alcohol compresses for lowering that fever. It's going to be quite a job disinfecting the equipment I'll be needing, not to mention producing the saline itself. This would be a lot easier if I could just find Mother." She sighed and stood up, the chamber pot kicked unceremoniously back to its place underneath Beckett's bed. "Let's hope at least one of your officers is partial to making moonshine. The antibiotics, though, they'll be easy enough to obtain...I'm sure the galley has plenty of mouldy bread."

Beckett reached for her hand as it rested near him, but she left his bedside before he could give it a proper caress. All he earned was a fleeting touch that gave only the faintest glimmer of hope.

"Larry," he whispered to her.

She paused at the door, her head tucked to prevent any further smacking against its frame.

"You are truly a witch," Beckett said to her.

She was stone as she stood at the door, her voice betraying no amusement at his words. "For a man who wants to live you have a funny way of making sure people would prefer to see you dead," she said. "Do yourself a favour, Beckett. Don't ever call me a witch again. Ever. Because if you do, death will be the least of your problems. Are we understood?"

No, he wanted to say but he was far too weak now to waste what little time he had left on words. He closed his eyes, his room colder as she left it.

A bright light shone into his eyes, and Beckett blinked into it, its searing heat suggesting he was staring directly into a flame of hell. Still, there seemed to be an uncharacteristic cheeriness attached to this brilliance which had no place in the fiery pit. He certainly couldn't be in Heaven, he reasoned. He'd done nothing in his life to ensure he made it there.

With unexpected strength, he reached his arm behind him and felt the cool outline of his feather down pillow. His room no longer held the fetid stench of the sick and dying, but it was awash in a rather vinegar ambience that was just as unpleasant. He tested his strength further, and found he could easily sit up in bed, if not a little dizzily. A wet cotton compress fell onto his lap, and, puzzled, Beckett took it into his hands and then brought it close to his face. An overpowering reek of pure alcohol wafted from it, and he tossed the offending piece of cloth onto the floor in distaste.

So, it seemed he had survived. He was in his quarters, on his bed, for all intents and purposes recovering from a rather harrowing sickness. He pulled aside the covers and sat on the edge of his bed, his health so restored he had a fervent urge to dress. The faster he left this horrible sick bed, the better, he thought. The last thing his career needed was any evidence suggesting he was in ill health.

He paused as he buttoned up his trousers, the odd events of the day before playing on his mind. Surely such things had been nothing but hallucinations brought on by fever? He dared to cast a glance beneath his bed and with some relief found his chamber pot was still in its accustomed place. He almost laughed at his own folly. A pirate who steals trash--What nonsense!

He rose from his bed as he fixed his white wig to his scalp, and stood at his open window, enjoying the cool breeze as it caressed his face. He would give orders to Mercer to take all evidence of his illness off the sick list. He adjusted his wool coat, which thanks to the loss of a few pounds no longer fit him perfectly. He adjusted the sleeves, and felt a sharp pain on the inside of his arm. Curious, he inspected the soft flesh on the underside of his elbow, and was surprised to find a fairly large bruise marring his otherwise pale skin. He could not recall how the injury came about, but since it seemed to have little to do with his past affliction, and in fact had no bearing on his current good health, he chose to ignore it. He let his sleeve fall, hiding the unpleasant blemish.

The sea outside his window was a jewel blue, the sky devoid of clouds and so close in colour to the waters below it both earth and heaven nearly blended into one. Beckett couldn't help but smile at this scene, as it seemed to have been given to him alone for his pleasure.

"I'm alive," he said to the melded horizon.

"Yes. How wonderful." A sardonic clapping resonated throughout Beckett's cabin, its echoing disappointment ruining Beckett's good humour. "Bravo."

Beckett pulled the shutter closed on his cabin window. "How is it, Norrington, that whenever you are around the sun just doesn't seem to shine all that brightly?"

Norrington cast a long shadow in Beckett's now dimly lit cabin, one hand firm on the hilt of his sword. "You're a lucky man, Lord Beckett. You've been brought back from the precipice of death by the ministrations of a rather skilled herbalist. Or, by other means...The ship's surgeon has yet to define the methods used. But, no matter, the transgressor has been dealt with, and you are now in good health. The ship is again under your command." Norrington gave Beckett a patronising bow. "At your service, sir."

Beckett pushed his way past Norrington, heading for the main bridge. "I don't fear I need remind you of your own precarious position on this ship," Beckett said to him. "Unfortunately, there is no avenue wherein I can charge and hang you for being an insufferable bore."

He winced as his weakened stomach decided to remind him that he had still only just recovered. Hunger assailed him, and he longed for a plate of bland vegetables and unsweetened tea.

"Feeling all right?" Norrington asked.

Beckett straightened and pulled himself up the small flight of stairs to the bridge, the action smarting the odd bruise on his right arm. He nodded at Mercer, who acknowledged his superior's presence with the proper restraint.

"It's good to see you are doing well, sir," Mercer said.

"Thank you," Beckett replied. "Are we still set on course to rendezvous with Jones?"

"We were a little behind schedule, but we seem to have caught up," Norrington said, behind him. "Despite all the concerns, of course."

Beckett bristled at this. "And what concerns would those be?"

"Oh, I don't know. Concerns of the crew, of the fate of this ship. Concerns about the rather dark element that we are allying ourselves with."

Beckett's imperfectly fitting jacket added further discomfort to their conversation. He would have to have it adjusted by a tailor immediately.

"Though they are the best in the fleet, they are but simple men at heart," Norrington continued. "Making deals with the dead sits ill with those who are already a superstitious lot. That last little problem...Why, I do believe there is an aura of mutiny about the place."

"Hold your tongue," Beckett snapped. He squared his shoulders and clasped his hands behind his back, ignoring the dull pain that shot through his injured arm. "I wonder, Norrington, just when did that concept spring into their 'simple' heads and who, exactly, put it there? Mutiny is a strong word with a very short noose attached to it. As a standing precaution, I suggest you eliminate it from your vocabulary."

Beckett surveyed his ship, searching for cracks in the general order of his command. But if there were any mutinous feelings, they were not readily evident. It appeared that despite Norrington's warning, the Endeavour was operating under business as usual, with the decks being swabbed, ropes being repaired and a general sense of calm bathing the ship which was in direct contrast to what lay for them ahead.

Still, there was a small, though not rowdy, gathering off the starboard side, with several naval officers standing in morose attendance. Beckett motioned to Mercer, and gestured to the small crowd.

"I see Governor Swann is getting his proper burial at sea after all," he said to his henchman, his voice terse. "I thought I gave strict orders for such formalities to be forgone in his case."

Mercer smiled, but it was more a twisted sneer. "Nay, sir. Governor Swann was buried four days ago."

Four days? Beckett reeled beneath the weight of this information. He'd been so ill he'd lost track of time, an entire four days--Governor Swann had been buried, and Norrington had four days to whisper sweet mutiny nothings in his officers' ears. Four days he spent, alone in his cabin, with everyone on board fully expecting him to die.

"If it is not a funeral..." Beckett said, confused.

Mercer gave Beckett his most enthusiastic, and sinister, grin.

"They be drowning the witch, sir."

"Stop! I order you to stop!"

The mixed crowd of seamen turned, the officers among them standing at attention as Beckett furiously marched toward them. Mercer followed closely behind, but Norrington remained aloof, his gait slowly casual as he caught up with them, his sword tapping the wooden planks in a distracted semblance of boredom.

On the tip of a large, wooden plank that had been pointed off the deck and above the rolling ocean, Larry stood with her arms crossed over her ample chest, her bare feet planted firmly on her perch. Beckett clutched the rails, unsure if he was more perturbed that his hallucination was, in fact, real, or that an order of execution had been made without his clearance.

In the end, he opted to be officious. "Who gave this order?" he shouted to the crew gathered around him.

The grumbling discussion that brewed within the crowd betrayed the fact that no one person had made the formal decision. The ship's surgeon coughed nervously into his fist. "We checked up on you, sir," he said, wisely not identifying exactly who 'we' comprised of. "Caught her right in the act of it, we did."

"She was sucking your soul out, sir," a petty officer said in unthinking agreement. "She'd dug a hose stolen from the still into your arm and she was siphoning your soul into a bag she had hanging on the post of your bed."

"Nonsense! You've earned yourself a kiss from the gunner's daughter! Mr. Mercer, you know what to do."

"Nay, sir!" the petty officer cried. "Not the whipping! She's truly a witch, sir!"

"Bring her back on board," Beckett ordered his men.

There was ensuing dismay at this order, the grumbling within the crowd becoming more of a fevered protest.

"There's been enough black magic wandering about without this on our deck."

"I didn't sign up my soul to be spending time in Davy Jones' locker for some half naked strumpet."

"Nothing good comes from having a woman aboard ship."

"Enough!" Beckett shouted. Mercer stood behind him, his weasel eyes ferreting out the more vocal of the crew and clearly making mental notes to hand out harsh discipline later. "This is no witch, and is therefore no threat to this ship or this crew. Superstitious lies can bind anyone who believes in them here to the gun for a proper whipping. However, as I am sure being exemplary officers of the Royal Navy, we are all reasonable men. Despite the unorthodox methods by which we will secure it, I assure you all that it is reason that shall be the victor in this battle and naught else. We shall stamp out Davy Jones and his ilk from this world and replace it with the cool solidity of intellect. Witches, ghosts and monsters will wither from our lack of faith in them. Such peasant folly as you've exemplified today will no longer be tolerated."

Norrington was painfully close to him, his near whisper just loud enough to be overheard. "Nice speech. I almost think that you believe it."

"She is no witch," Beckett assured him.

"Be that as it may, how sure are you that you can trust her?" Norrington's voice softened to bring Beckett into his full confidence. "What that poor deck hand said was somewhat true--She did have you hooked up to a very strange contraption, though it seemed to me the clear liquid was not your soul, but some sort of salted water, and it was not being siphoned from you but put into your blood." Norrington's voice grated on Beckett's ear. "My Lord Beckett, mark my words--A lot of knowledge is useful, but only a little knowledge is dangerous."

"This has nothing to do with trust," Beckett shot back.

"Really?" Norrington said, raising a brow. "Then what does it have to do with?"

Ignoring his jab, Beckett turned his ire back upon his crew. They wisely moved aside as Beckett approached the plank, his manner cool as he placed his hands on the deck rail. "You've saved my life," he said to Larry.

"You're welcome," she replied. She shifted where she stood and the plank dangerously creaked beneath her feet. Wide splinters in the old wood threatened to break into shards and plummet her into the black, churning waters below that longed to claim her. Beckett offered her his hand, beckoning her to come forward.

Each step she took heaved beneath her weight, but she was not so far from the deck. Only a couple more steps and she would be safely guided back onto his ship with the firm assurance of his hand in hers. Beckett felt a swelling sense of anticipation at this, and he dared to give Larry a knowing smile.

"You have quite a knack for causing a scene," Beckett observed.

"And you have quite the skill when it comes to minimising damages," Larry said. She placed a haughty hand on her hip and raised her chin in proud confidence. "You could say that's what drew me here in the first place."

She took a step forward towards Beckett and the safety of his touch, but her last footfall was just a fraction too heavy. The knots within the old wood popped, sending spidery lines outward from each circle.

With a harrowing crash the plank splintered into fragments. She hurtled down the side of the ship, splashing into the briny, black ocean, where billowing waves swallowed her whole and buried her beneath their turmoil.

Beckett still had his hand held out, the emptiness within his grasp heavier than a loaded, iron cannon. A small choke escaped his lips, but he clenched his outstretched hand into a fist and held it back, easing his stricken heart into a semblance of icy calm. The crew silently dispersed around him, a palpable sense of relief at her passing coursing through them. They had not, of course, fully believed in Beckett's speech, and were more than content to continue walking their paths in the dark.

"Pity," Norrington said, searching the black water. "She was an interesting distraction." He tapped the blade of his sword on the deck, stabbing small holes into the wood. "Jones will be here at any moment." Norrington walked away, his sword tap, tapping in front of him like a blind man's cane. "Let's hope her soul has sunk too far for him to find it."

Distracted was the word Beckett was searching for as he regarded the tentacled, barnacle mess that was Davy Jones. The pirate's octopus face puckered and popped in quiet contemplation as Beckett sat back, waiting for an answer.

"I don't know any pirate named Larry," Jones said. He puffed again, regarding Beckett with a certain level of confused curiosity. "And what be the purpose of this?" he asked, his lobster pincer pointing to the large, white ceramic object sitting in the middle of Beckett's desk.

"Don't touch it," Beckett warned him. He slouched in his seat, and stared at the scrubbed to gleaming white chamber pot as though scrying his future. His bottom lip was pursed in a morose pout, his eyes hollowed and dark as he continued to stare at its banal surface.

"It's worth forty thousand pounds," Beckett added.

"Nothing is worth such a sum," Jones growled.

Though it was difficult to contemplate, there were worse fates than losing her to the crush of the sea, Beckett thought. She could have met her fate on the Flying Dutchman, and as such she was lucky to have caught her demise on the Endeavour. If she'd been on the Dutchman, by now she would already be a part of the ship, her long arms and legs twisted into the beams, her thick black and red hair a lined streak within algae riddled wood. She would be nothing more than another absorption into the unholy construction.

Beckett shivered.

"Who be this Larry to ye?"

"It doesn't matter. Larry is dead," Beckett impatiently told Jones. He searched the undead man for any sign of a reaction, but there was nothing from him but blank ignorance. Beckett sighed, an uneasy sadness threatening to overtake him. The only person who seemed to have any disappointment in her passing was himself.

He thought on earlier that evening, when he had retreated alone to his cabin and pulled out the yellow volume she had left behind. He had turned to the page that had outlined his meagre life for the future, but the page had changed, altering to reflect his current history. Survival had not boded well for him. All that remained there now was a detailed cross-sectional diagram of a cuttlefish. There was no footnote for Lord Cutler Beckett. He didn't deserve even this.


	3. Chapter 3

Longitude--chapter three

An uneventful day passed, and though Beckett was still uneasy about Larry's demise, he refused to feel any remote semblance of sadness for a woman who clearly had little to no social standing. That he had any curiosity left for her was a demeaning act upon his intellect. His chamber pot had been placed back where it belonged, the accursed book she had left behind locked in a drawer where it would no longer disturb his sleep. It would crumble into mold and dust and in time, Larry herself would become no more than the barest fragment of memory.

Though his wool coat still did not fit him perfectly, it was spotlessly clean and pressed, his cravat suitably pinned at his neck with a gold and sapphire broach. He smoothed down any wayward threads of hair from his white wig as he stood in front of his looking glass, and polished the top two buttons of his coat to shiny brilliance with a piece of suede. He had given himself a close shave and his countenance was not displeasing, though he was far too pale even for fashion as a result of his recent illness. He pinched his cheeks to give his skin a healthier hue and smoothed his fingers upwards to give the red marks a more natural appearance.

Unbidden, the memory of his feverish night descended upon him, bringing with it the softness of shadows and the warm, comforting touch of Larry's palm upon his cheek. His hand lingered at the spot where she had caressed him, his body filled with an unfamiliar longing.

"We've reached port, sir."

Reflected in his mirror was Lieutenant Grietzer, his hat removed in respect. Regaining his composure, he once again adjusted his cravat and turned to his first lieutenant. "What is the status of the crew?" Beckett asked.

"They are eager to go ashore, sir," Lieutenant Grietzer said.

Beckett inwardly smiled at this. Norrington had been correct in his observation that the crew was comprised of simple men, for though they were tied to a ship with such an obviously soul-endangering ally as Davy Jones, they were also easily appeased with a good bottle of rum and a couple of willing tavern whores. This leave would do wonders for healing the rift Norrington had tried to cultivate. A few more casks of wine might do the trick to keep them regarding his favour. Morale would never be better.

"Lieutenant, send a few men into the market for provisions. Rum, brandy, the usual necessities..."

"What of meat, sir? The men have been longing for a good side of beef."

Beckett's stomach churned at the very thought of red meat, the blood draining from his face and leaving him as pale as he'd been on his deathbed. "No. Live produce only. And plenty of root vegetables and fruits."

"As you wish, sir," Lieutenant Grietzer replied, though it was clear he was unsure of this list's reception. No matter, Beckett thought. With enough wine any food was a mere accompaniment, and the fact that Davy Jones periodically haunted their decks would hold a far less sting upon their judgement with ample wine to dull their doubts.

Grietzer left him, and Beckett was once again alone in his meeting room, his appearance one of cold confidence, every thread of his fashion exuding success. The port he had chosen for shore leave had not been a random one, and he picked up the letter he had received only a week before and reread it, the hand it had been inked in comprised of sprawling, overly-curled letters. The prose within the letter was equally insipid, but it was not the content of the correspondence that inspired Beckett to add a touch of perfume to his coat more-so than the realisation of certain ambitions. A fortuitous arrangement was falling into place, and a new gleam shone in his eye as to what power this could wield in his future.

This was no easy prospect, however, for there was still the tiresome exertion of charm to be utilised, along with careful flattery mixed in with gentle boasting of his own accomplishments within the East India Trading Company. His war on piracy had met with positive agreement from those whom he most wished to influence. If he played his part well, he could secure his position within this most upper class echelon of aristocracy, as was already clear by letter he had received.

No, he was not content to be remembered by a mere footnote. Lord Cutler Beckett was due an entire chapter.

He inwardly chided himself at breaking his own promise to forget the thieving pirate Larry and her insane volume of lies. He shoved the letter he had received deep into his coat pocket, and slid his sword carefully into its hilt. The carriage would be waiting for him, along with all the success of his future.

"Murtog! Mullroy!"

The two petty officers looked up from their post, which seemed to consist of them staring at minute cracks in one of the deck boards. They stood at attention uneasily, as though they had been kneeling and studying the board for quite some time.

"Sir," Murtog said, saluting Lieutenant Gietzer. He jabbed his partner harshly in the shoulder, reminding Mullroy to offer the same respect.

Grietzer frowned as he glared down at them from his lofty position on the bridge. "What the devil are you two doing?"

"Deck inspection, sir," Mullroy said.

"There seems to be nails missing," Murtog agreed.

Grietzer rolled his eyes and held out the master list he'd been given for provisions, accompanied by a small, lightweight bag of coins. "We'll be pulling into port before sundown. Get the pusser, Johnson, and accompany him to market..."

"We can't do that, sir," Mullroy said, emphatically shaking his head.

"Absolutely impossible," Murtog agreed.

Grietzer waited a few, stupid moments before the inevitable had to be asked. "Why?"

"He's still sleeping off the grog," Murtog said.

"We didn't want to say anything before, sir," Mullroy continued. "But he does seem to have a bit of a problem."

"It's a sad and sorrowful thing to see a man consumed by his inner demons," Murtog agreed.

Grietzer sighed in annoyance. "So, our pusser has a problem with the bottle..."

"Oh no, sir," Mullroy said, shocked at the assumption.

"He's got the tapeworm," Murtog explained.

"Right," Grietzer said, and held back the small bag of money that Mullroy was ready to take from his grasp. He searched the deck for a more suitable, able bodied replacement, and then waved over the strongest looking redcoat standing alongside the steering wheel, a long piece of rope twined between the healthy man's thumb and forefinger.

"You there!" Grietzer shouted to him. "Can you work well with sums?"

The young man hesitated, his head kept low in respectful deference to his superior. "If ye mean by adding and subtractin', I'm quite good at it, yes, sir," he said in a deep, thickly cockneyed lilt.

"Good," Grietzer said, glad to be rid of his burden. He tossed the small sack of coins to the young officer along with the list of needed supplies and food. "Murtog and Mullroy will go into market with you to fill this order. All money spent is to be tallied and there had better not be so much as a half penny missing, understood?"

The young redcoat's hand completely closed over the sack, the coins clinking together in his grip. He kept his hat lowered over his eyes, obscuring most of his face, but there was no mistaking the crooked smile of triumph at this new responsibility.

"Aye, sir," was the strangely deep reply.

The market of Port Bedouin was a rowdy, noisy place even when there wasn't a shipload of navy men swarming its square. Murtog and Mullroy were nearly trampled by four women of questionable repute who had latched themselves onto the arm of one lucky young redcoat. Their companion was aloof enough to rebuff any such advances, however, though Murtog did chance to look over his shoulder at his fellow officer Mullroy, whose expression was one of agonised envy.

"Gentlemen, I would not be so keen to waste your time on sluts who will give you nothing more in your lives than a disfiguring disease and/or a screaming, colicky bastard," their companion said, his voice much less cockneyed than it had been onboard, his cadence one of warm sultriness. He placed his hand on his hip and surveyed the market with a shrewd assessment. The air was thick with the smells of rotting meat and smoke, with rotting fish being the most prevalent aroma which was accented by the curses of the fish-wives as they cut and gutted the fish in the open air, the spoiled meat mixed in well with the fresh. A tannery that ran on coal was located just a mile down from the market, competing with the disgusting stench at the port, setting a grimy, poisonous layer of soot upon the produce being sold. This minor issue wasn't slowing down business, not when all manner of class could be seen searching for a deal within these bustling, dirty confines.

He unrolled the list and studied it, weighing both what he was expected to purchase with the scant amount of cash he'd been given. "This will be a challenge."

"It always is," Murtog complained. "Johnson says Lieutenant Grietzer's skimming off the top, if you gets my meaning."

"It's not like poor Johnson can complain, either, what with how he don't have no tongue." Mullroy said. He gave his head a sad shake as he thought on his friend. "Lost it at cards, the poor sod."

Grimacing, their companion held a clean white cloth at his mouth, a vain attempt to keep the poisons in the air out of his lungs. "I won't be purchasing anything here," he said. "I wouldn't feed this garbage to rats."

"What do you mean?" Mullroy asked. "We've been getting quality provisions from Port Bedouin for years."

"I don't know about you, but I'd prefer to eat food that hasn't been smoked in coal and spent tannery grease," the young officer said, surprising Murtog and Mullroy with a sense of haughty propriety only afforded nobility.

"You'd have to go into the city proper for that," Murtog said. "And the food there's way too expensive for the budget Lieutenant Gietzer's given us."

Through the haze of polluted air, the most important provision on the list had been neatly stacked against the large stone wall of the winery, a cart overloaded with barrels being secured tightly with rope. A sultry smile played on the young officer's full lips, and with a single index finger he beckoned both Murtog and Mullroy to follow him towards his target.

"Wait...We can't take our wine from there," Mullroy protested. "That's the Marquis De Bedouin's private stock."

Their fellow officer did not hesitate in his pursuit, his gait confident and strong, his hand on his hip which had the characteristic sashay of a fancy noble dandy. Those of the more peasant classes gave him a wide berth, their heads nodding in acknowledgement of his apparent superior social status. Though he was not quite so destitute, the wine merchant paused in his efforts to load his cart with more barrels than it could hold, and paid this man of visibly noble blood who approached him the proper respects.

"Good day to you, sirrah," he said, bowing. The wine merchant was a rotund, red faced man with thick jowls and an unsightly spherical mole that grew from the underside of his chin. His suit was well worn and his jacket near threadbare, while his young assistant beside him was in further poverty, his body malnourished and his back humped from the constant pushing and pulling of wine barrels for hours on end. They both had ringed, hungry eyes heavy with exhaustion. Even the most casual observer could see that business hadn't been good.

"Ten barrels," the young officer said, and tossed the entire sack of coins to the merchant, sending his already red face into a brilliantly purple hue.

"You can't be doing that!" Murtog exclaimed. "We hasn't even bought the veggies yet!"

"Man can't live by wine alone, though I guess sometimes it's wiser to try to," Mullroy said. He gave Murtog a sheepish shrug. "Considering one's circumstances, that is."

"Wine is hardly the answer to any of life's problems," Murtog argued.

"Be that true, as I know it is, if I have to face the unholy throng of Davy Jones's fish people, I'd be getting a lot more comfort out of wine than a plate of boiled potatoes."

The merchant turned the meagre ration of coins out into his palm, his assistant sighing in wishful longing as he looked on them.

"It's more than three times what we've gotten for the lot," the assistant breathed. The wine merchant shook his head, and tossed the coins back into the sack. He handed it back to the surprised redcoat.

"Nay, we cannot take this, sirrah. The Marquis De Bedouin has already paid for his crate of wine."

"A crate which is already too full," the officer observed. "Those ten barrels there will be impossible to load--I'm offering you quite a bargain. You have overstock, and I am willing to overpay. I can't see the problem, everybody's winning."

"I understand this well, sirrah, but I cannot abide by your wish," the merchant said. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously, sweat leaving black streaks on his hands and skin. "Look, I can gives you the two barrels on the side by the window, there. They was taken out too early and they's nothing but vinegar. You can has them for a couple of farthing."

"I'll take them," the officer said, reaching into his own pocket for the proper change. He tossed the sack of coins belonging to the Endeavour's coffers at the merchant's hungry assistant, who caught it with a firmer grip than his employer. "Along with my ten barrels."

"Go on, Sebastian," his assistant pleaded. "Only ten barrels...What could it hurt?"

The sudden onslaught of horse's hooves could be heard in the distance, and the wine merchant shook his head as they approached nearer. "We don't have time for this, we're late as it is and that's a risk enough for the gallows. Much as it's appreciated, sirrah, I cannot take your money. Take the vinegar for nothing, I'll not hold it against ye."

The horses bore down on the crowd without pity, their coachman driving them well into the centre of the market, heedless of the people the carriage could have trampled in its wake. The carriage itself was an imposing monstrosity of gilded gold and white paint, with a contrasting series of pastel pink flowers adorning every panelled surface. Its rotund shape was oddly reminiscent of a pumpkin only the occupant was no Cinderella. The door to the carriage swung open, and a gangly man of noble birth stepped down, two attendants immediately coming to his assistance lest his blessed blue velvet boots come into any contact with the damp, soot-stained cobblestones of the market. He wore a curly grey wig that fell to his waist, pearls and exotic feathers dotting its surface. His overcoat was a pastel blue velvet affair that was heavily adorned with gold thread. As he walked towards the wine merchant, his tending assistants placed fresh squares of linen before every step. The wine merchant's red face paled as this ridiculous dandy man approached, and he cleared his throat as he gave his most important, and sole, customer a low bow.

The Marquis De Bedouin had tiny black eyes that sat high on his inordinately long face. "Sebastien, I do believe you are aware that I am to have company this evening," he said, betraying a slight lisp and a rather horrendous overbite that was put into further prominence by his snobbish posture. He pointed to the cart with a wave of a hand that held a perfumed piece of lace. "We have been expecting you hours ago," the Marquis complained.

"We're sorry, sirrah," the wine merchant said, his head bent. "It was such short notice and..."

"Excuses!" the Marquis snapped. "I ordered a cart of wine and I am to get it when I ask for it!"

"A cart of wine?" the officer from the Endeavour shrewdly observed. The officer gave Sebastien the wine merchant a knowing wink. "So, he's plainly said in front of all of us that he wants his cart of wine and he wants it now. You're free to give me the ten barrels I've paid for."

The Marquis tried to step closer to this person who had dared to address him so plainly, but his attendants had run out of clean white square sheets and he remained rooted to his spot. "This is my wine," the Marquis said, his upper lip curling above his huge front teeth. "Sebastien knows full well he cannot sell to anyone but me."

"So...You own the grapevines and the land they grow on?" the officer asked.

"Um, no, actually...Mr. Sebastien owns that, sir," the assistant said, earning a harsh stare from his employer.

"You own the equipment, the storeroom, the distillery, the labour?"

"No, sir, Sebastien owns all that hisself too. Ouch!" His assistant rubbed the back of his head, massaging the bruise his master's backhanded smack had caused him.

"You pay duties, then? Tax on that land in some complicated serf agreement?"

"No. Mr. Sebastien pays that to the king, sir. That payment has nothing at all to do with the Marquis." He cast a frightened glance at the Marquis' teeth. "That is, Marquis, sir..."

"So what you're saying is, this wine does not belong to the Marquis De Bedouin at all, but is in fact the sole property of Mr. Sebastien."

"Sirrah, please," the wine merchant pleaded. "You are leading me to the gallows or worse..."

Murtog and Mullroy stood uneasily behind their fellow officer. The argument was causing a rather dishevelled crowd to grow around them, with the fruit and vegetable sellers even going so far as to abandon their carts to get a better view of what was happening. A crooked eyed peasant near Murtog wore a particularly vicious expression, his lips curled and black, ready to utter curses at any given second. The peasant took a crisp bite out of a raw potato, and chewed it noisily, the crunches echoing over the square like crackling bones in a fire.

"There are only two things in this world that I can honestly say I hate," their companion said. "One is the overuse of pastels. Nothing says 'I'm terrified of living' more clearly than a room drowned in watered down powder blue. Honestly, if you wish to make a statement with colour, why opt for that bleached nothingness--You'd be better off whitewashing everything in bird shit. The other is an extortionist. Unfortunately, Marquis De Bedouin, you have insulted me twice."

"You can not speak to me in such a way!" the Marquis shouted at him. "You will take none of this wine!"

"This is not rocket science. I paid for those barrels, I'm taking them. Lads, load them up." On his cue, Mortog and Mullroy began rolling their extra barrels to their supply cart, confused, nervous glances exchanged between them.

"A word of advice," their unknown redcoat companion said to Sebastien. "If you want your business to succeed, you need to expand your customer base. You've stifled your profits by keeping your market narrowed down to this ferret-faced twit. You have to remember, he's the customer, and if he wants your product badly enough he'll pay for it."

"Arrest this thieving cretin!" the Marquis shouted, the tip of his cane pointed at the officer's head like a loaded gun.

The crowd had encroached so closely upon the Marquis it was now near impossible for the Marquis' men to get a hold of the offending officer. The caustic voice of a fish wife broke into the sombre crowd, her cackling voice as sour as the spoiled fish guts and scales that littered the skirt of her dress.

"Was you what's been thieving," she shouted. "He's right, he is, we hasn't got a fair price out of you in years. You come here and wipe us out of all and threaten to throw us in the oubliette if we so much as even thinks to ask you to pay proper."

"Halt your tongue fish-wife or I shall cut it out for you!" the Marquis shouted back.

"Thief!" a potato merchant dared to accuse.

"Scoundrel!" a fruit stand vendor dared to add.

"Arrest them all!"

The crowd had worked itself into a proper frenzy now, a fever that was only increased by the sudden eviction of a dozen drunken redcoats from a nearby inn who stumbled and cursed into the melee, making the crowd a twisted confusion of privilege and poverty. The merchant stands were abandoned as the crowd loudly began fighting within itself, the Marquis De Bedouin earning a slimy punch to his jaw from the outspoken fish-wife, and the wine merchant receiving drunken requests from the various redcoats who threw money in his direction, begging him for bottles of his red remedy.

The Marquis' squares of white cotton were now trampled into black rags within the crowd, the Marquis himself likewise consumed.

The Marquis' carriage door flung open and a young, nimble boned young woman crept out of it, her body as tiny as a mouse, the heavily ruffled dress she wore in washed out pink dwarfing her within the material. She had a fiercely tiny face, with the same small black eyes as the Marquis, and her own overbite was distinct, almost disfiguring, her face melting into her neck through a strange lack of a chin. She stepped out of the carriage with great care, placing her foot upon the cobblestones with the reluctance of one avoiding a pasture of manure. A small child belonging to one of the fruit sellers stood near to her, his large, brown eyes huge as he took her spectacle in. She shooed him away with the back of her pale hands.

"Oh go, you foul wittle cweature!" she said, her lisp clearly more pronounced than the Marquis'.

But the poor child could not help but stare, for while the woman was a tiny creature dwarfed by her dress, she was further reduced by the massive two foot wig that sprung from her head. As a result of the wig, her head was far too large for the rest of her body and she struggled beneath the weight of it, for not only was it comprised of woven hair, the two foot bouffant also contained a large, complex wooden model of a ship complete with open masts and canons at the ready, her hair twined within the wig and upwards into the ballast like the embrace of a Kraken.

"Edwin, my bwother, what is the pwoblem?" she asked, tottering unevenly towards the melee as the weight of her hair made her wobble. The fact that the market had now descended into a full on riot was lost on her, for there was clearly more important issues on her small mind. "Edwin, we are going to be wate for the pawty!"

Murtog and Mullroy had already loaded up the cart and were heading up the main road as per their fellow officer's instructions. Their companion paused, his gaze arrested by the odd spectacle of a woman who had joined the fray, or, more specifically, at the vast ship that had been woven so tightly against the creature's scalp.

"Mother?" he asked, astonished.


	4. Chapter 4

Longitude--chapter four

For not the first time, Lord Cutler Beckett mused on the prevalence of sunlight in his journeys as of late, his carriage bathed in the warm glow of the afternoon. He took it to be an omen of his good fortune that the sun glinted with cheerful brilliance upon the sprawling chateau of the Marquis De Bedouin, and he took out the letter he had so often read while at sea on the Endeavour, a spot of sun in pen and ink upon his other far darker dealings.

An approval for an engagement lay within his grasp, penned by the Marquis De Bedouin himself, whom Beckett had managed to secure a relationship that now afforded a first name basis. "Dearest Cutler, it is with great pleasure that I agree to the engagement of my sister to your hand..." And so on and so on, Beckett impatiently read, his future brother-in-law's ability to ramble evident as the letter described a hunting part he'd had months ago, and the virtues of a particular wine merchant's victuals. After nearly a full page of this nonsense, it was at last mentioned that Lord Beckett would be most welcome at the chateau when he pulled into port as they would be having a fancy soiree on the specified date. It was not outright spoken of in the letter, but Beckett was quite sure the invite had been made to ensure a formal announcement of his engagement to Priscilla could be made.

Leaving with the Endeavour for the past five months had been a wise decision, as it had clearly whetted an appetite for marriage. The fact that she was hideous was not a point worth dwelling on for Beckett, not when his true love was coming closer with every trot of the horse's hooves, his carriage rumbling along the lane that led to the main entrance of the chateau. The Bedouin family was the wealthiest in a region of very rich European nobles, and their political influence was solid. Though he inwardly grimaced at the thought of spending time with his new fiancee and future bride, it was but a small price to pay for such valuable social standing. Besides, her ugliness had given him a great advantage--their engagement was unlikely to have been challenged by another suitor. He still had a bit of work left to do for the East India Trading Company, and he could use this excuse for long excursions at sea and at his appointed post in India whilst she remained on shore, safely tucked away in her castle in Bedouin.

The carriage pulled up and stopped at the main entrance of the chateau, its sprawling splendour reaching across the horizon in the manner of a holy temple dedicated solely to man. Lord Cutler Beckett checked his breath by breathing on his palm and found it pleasing enough thanks to the cardamom seed he'd been chewing earlier. His face was freshly powdered, his uniform pressed and lightly spritzed with fine perfume. For all outward appearances he was not a man who had spent the last five months at sea, but was a pampered example of aristocracy, one who could easily fit into the arena of such a prominent family as the Bedouins.

The carriage door was opened for him, and he stepped out of the coach, the sun blinding him with its glorious rays, bathing the scene of his entrance in hues of brilliant yellow. The sky was a shocking blue, devoid of any clouds, the grasses that lined the estate a deep and vibrant green. And yet...There seemed to be some undefinable shadow of inconsistency about the chateau that Beckett had not expected. There was no one to greet him and announce his presence, and overall sense of abandonment by the Marquis' servants in this regard irked Beckett, making him feel neglected. No matter, he thought. Such oversights would have to be forgiven, as to do so was the mark of a true gentleman.

He knocked on the huge oak doors of the chateau's entrance, only to find to his surprise that they creaked open of their own accord, leaving just enough space for him to slip in. The calm reassurance of his pleasant carriage drive was instantly destroyed by the utter chaos that was churning within the chateau's walls. Frantic servants ran back and forth within the foyer, disappearing and reappearing from the side sitting room with stricken, panicked expressions. There was not even the courtesy of a bow at his entrance, the cause being the howling, high-pitched wailing going on within the main guest room, its caterwaul echoing throughout the chateau and into its very foundations, the pitch gaining in power the longer it stretched into the empty space of the foyer.

Uncertain, Beckett walked into the sitting room whence the wailing originated from, his ears positively smarting from its unnaturally high pitch. He was quite confused by the messy state of the room when he entered it, its occupants dishevelled, the usually spotless oak floors smeared with a black, greasy substance that had likewise found its way onto the pale blue chair in the corner, a hand-print blackly visible upon its centre cushion. Priscilla, his soon-to-be-betrothed, lay in a swoon upon a chaise, her dress torn at the heel, her hair a mess of wooden splinters and what looked to be miniature cannons poking from her head in the manner of pins on a pincushion. Her mouth was a howling circle of grief whose noise only stopped when she caught sight of her shocked fiancee in the doorway.

"Oh! My Lawd Beckett!" she cried, and wiped at the tears that lined her sallow cheeks, the powder that should have improved her complexion now smeared into uneven blotches. "Thank goodness you are here! Oh, it was howwible! Twuly howwible!"

"Evidently," Beckett replied. He winced as she tore herself from the chaise and into his arms, sticky powder from her face and black paint from the cannons in her hair smearing the clean perfection of his uniform. A horrid, foul stench wafted from her greasy countenance and burrowed its dead fish stink into Beckett's chest. He gently, and then more forcefully than was polite, pushed her away, noting with no small amount of dismay that she had left a perfect imprint of her wailing face on the centre of his blue coat.

"My poor bwother Edwin!" she moaned. "The bwutes left him in tatters!"

"Flog him! Hang him! Toss him from a cliff face!" her brother's voice wailed. The Marquis Edwin De Bedouin stormed into the sitting room with a filthy flourish, his velvet blue coat smeared black with foul smelling mud, a damp cloth held against his cheek where a fairly large bruise had formed. "You will rectify this gross assault upon my person!" the Marquis railed at Beckett. "I demand justice!"

Beckett did what he knew best in any crisis situation, which was to remain as calm and unfettered by the chaos surrounding him as possible. It had been a tactic that had proved most useful in his dealings with the undead pirate Davy Jones, and it was one that was easily enough utilised on the petty squabble the Marquis De Bedouin was involved in. "I am sure there is justice to be had, my dear Edwin." A decanter of brandy sat on a side table, being woefully neglected. He poured himself a glass, his words picked with careful precision. "But in order for such an act to be meted out, I must first be aware of the offence."

The Marquis sniffed and held his head high, a dab of mud wiped from his cheek with the last shred of his perfumed piece of lace. "I had merely visited my trusted wine merchant to obtain the proper amounts of drink for this night's festivities, only to be usurped in my efforts by some waxy-eared miscreant from the crew of your ship!" He sniffed indignantly, the shred of filthy lace clutched tight in his fist as he held it near his cheek. "He stole my wine and turned the market into a rioting mob. I would have thought that a member of the crew of the Endeavour would have much better manners than what I was forced to witness!"

Beckett took a long sip of his brandy, fully aware that all eyes were upon him in the reeking, destroyed sitting room. He could not help the small sigh of satisfaction that escaped his lips as the warm liquid coursed down his throat. Though the officer who had caused the problem had nearly sabotaged Beckett's position in the Bedouin family, he had also created an avenue within which Beckett could play the hero. The disrespect Edwin had suffered was of no matter to Beckett, he had little in that regard to offer the simpering man, and best course would be to play upon the Marquis' vanity, a tactic that had always brought success. Right now, Lord Cutler Beckett was the man with all the answers and how he responded to this crisis would be a point of recollection for generations of Bedouins to come. He hid his smile from the Marquis by taking another sip of the smooth, welcome brandy.

"I am sorry to hear of this," Beckett said. "Once found, the officer who has so grievously abused you will be dealt with most harshly."

"There shall be no other penalty but death!" the Marquis exclaimed.

"And so that shall be the order," Beckett smoothly replied. "I shall send out a warrant for his arrest immediately..."

"There is no need," the Marquis announced. "We found the miserable cad in the main square of the village not an hour ago." He impatiently snapped his fingers, his servants nervously rushing to aid him. "Bring the unworthy cur in!"

Beckett braced himself, knowing he would have to give a good performance in his dressing down of one of his officers. Not only would he coolly inform the unfortunate soul that he was to face the noose for his insolence, he would even go so far as to have him severely lashed for the Marquis' pleasure. This embarrassing turn would become Beckett's greatest achievement in the history of the Bedouin clan. He felt a pang of regret in the fact he could not spare the offending officer's life in recompense for it.

Clipped steps marked the entrance of the servants who guided the Marquis' prisoner into the sitting room. They walked ahead of the officer, who himself was strangely at ease, his sashaying gait confident as he paused at various items along the length of the hallway leading into the sitting room, a pursed assessment of a clock on the foyer mantelpiece momentarily taking his attention, only for it to be abandoned in favour of an old chair tucked into the corner, used solely for the purpose of a servant who would tend the fire. The chair had taken the offender's full concentration, his gaze shifting back to it in longing glances over his shoulder. Reluctant to leave the fascination of the chair, he placed a hand on his hip and finally abandoned his study for the sitting room, his height so great that the top of his white wig grazed the door's ornate moulding as he entered.

Beckett choked on his sip of brandy. "Larry?"

"Cutler!" Larry said, flashing him a huge, dazzling grin. "Imagine, finding you here!"

"You are familiar with this vile thing?" the Marquis furiously spat at Beckett. "You keep such base company?"

"I..."

"Of course we're familiar," Larry said, giving Cutler a mischievous wink. "You could say Cutty and I have a lot of history between us." She pushed past the Marquis, being especially careful not to let any of the foul mud he was caked in smear upon her stolen uniform, her hands sliding along the stones of the fireplace, and resting upon a brass lion's head ornament that had been fixed within it, her thumbnail teasing remnants of soot from its golden mane. "I truly have no idea what the problem is. If you're still stuck on me having 'stolen' your wine, which wasn't yours to begin with, then you can go and check the stock we were bringing back to the ship for yourself. There's nothing there from your wine merchant, we bought those barrels in town." She bit her bottom lip and pulled out a silver letter opener from inside her red coat and then proceeded to chip away at the stone around the brass lion's head. It popped out with little effort, and she put the brass ornament and the letter opener back into her pocket. "Go ahead and check for yourself," she said to him.

"He's right, sir," one of the servants who had accompanied her bravely agreed. "None of the barrels match our merchant's marks."

The servant's outspokenness did not go unpunished. The room resounded with the vicious slap the Marquis delivered to him full across the face, and the servant cowered at the prospect of further blows. "Insolence!" the Marquis shouted, his voice now feverishly high-pitched, his bottom lip quivering in rage. "You may convince my servants to lie in regards to your thievery, but there is no denying the fact that you brutally attacked my sister!"

Larry shifted uncomfortably at this, though her hand remained stubbornly on her hip. She addressed Beckett, who was fighting with all he had to keep his shock at a low ebb. "I thought her hair had trapped someone I know," Larry explained.

Priscilla was not to be outdone in her own fury. "He kept scweaming at me," Priscilla hysterically asserted, suddenly recovered from her swoon upon the chaise. "'Mother! Mother!' he cried, 'Give me back Mother you lice-widdled bitch!' OH! The foulness of it! I am tainted by his foul words!" Priscilla fell back upon the chaise in a wailing howl that nearly cracked glass with its resonance, and covered her blotchy red and yellow face with her hands. Her brother the Marquis, not to be outdone in this tragedy, competed with her noisy distress by shouting his own cries of woe over his ruined boots, his smelly sleeves, his insubordinate servants and the need for many to end in a proper hanging. Within this loud chaos, Cutler managed to pull Larry to one side and bring her into his close, whispered confidence.

"It wasn't Mother," Larry said first.

"I've gathered that," Cutler said through clenched teeth. "Are you telling me that Mother is, in fact, a ship?"

"Sort of. Well...She does have a lot of examples to draw from."

"A ship that sails in people's hair?"

"Given the right mood, who knows what Mother might do," Larry sighed. "The last time I saw her she was dry enough to fit in my pocket."

"You drowned," Beckett reminded her. "You fell into the ocean and were crushed beneath its waves."

"No, I fell into the ocean and swam back to the ship. I climbed back in through one of the cannon windows--You know, Cutty, old friend, it's quite bad manners to meet my survival with disappointment. Considering all that I've done for you, the least you can offer me is relief that I'm okay."

"Relief?" Beckett harshly whispered. The shouting behind him had become a deafening roar. "Do you dare call the ruin of my reputation a relief?"

"Enough of this madness!" the Marquis De Bedouin shouted, and the room fell into an angry silence. He fixed his attention on Beckett, his miserable beady eyes unforgiving. "I was fully prepared to take this scoundrel out to the market square and hang him as a base example, but since he is an old friend of yours, Lord Beckett, I am forced to behave as one gentleman to another--Regardless of how this fiend has so brutally abused the title." The Marquis sniffed, his chin held high, revealing the smudge of dirt that had dried on his neck from where the fish wife had choked him. With great flourish, he pulled a blackened, formerly white glove from his pocket and tossed it on the ground before Larry. Priscilla let out a melodramatic, ear-splitting scream and then swooned, once again, upon the chaise in a near faint.

"Oh! My bwother! No!" she cried.

"A duel," the Marquis announced. "To the death!"

Larry let out a derisive snort of laughter, both hands on her shapely hips. "Bring it on, bitch, I can take it."

Beckett coughed into his fist, as polite an interruption as he could muster given the current state of the Marquis' temper. "My dear Edwin," he dared to say, infusing his address with what he hoped would create an intimate informality. "This entire escapade is merely a project wrapped in madness. Larry has always been, as you say a...a...cough...gentleman, only he has suffered in his life, most grievously, to severe maladies of the mind, the extent of which has only become apparent as of late. The actions he has committed, as per your own words, while despicable they are also the acts of a simple madman. It would not be reasonable to shoot down such an unfortunate creature whose mind is not capable of understanding what it has done. Though I had felt Larry had been well enough to be trusted with minor responsibilities under my employ, he has perhaps become further unhinged by the pressures of the sea, and it would be a great act of charity on your part to merely send this unfortunate soul where he belongs..."

"To hell," the Marquis spat.

"I was thinking more along the lines of an asylum, but I imagine that analogy is quite correct," Beckett tersely replied.

"No," the Marquis insisted. "Your arguments for your friend, heartfelt as they are, spring from the fact that you are a gentleman and are thus forced to give such leeway for an old friend. I, however, am not obligated with such burdens, and as such, I can forgive you, Lord Beckett, while not offering mercy for your unfortunate associate. Marcus!" The Marquis loudly clapped his hands, and the servant he had struck earlier meekly came to his side. "My sister and I shall retire to our rooms to at least outwardly repair the damage that loathsome cretin has forced upon us. The duel shall be executed at sunset. You are to prepare the pistols."

A weeping Priscilla was led out of the room by two maids who spoke to her distress in soothing tones as they escaped with her up the grand staircase situated in the centre of the foyer. The Marquis De Bedouin followed her, accompanied by the servants whose job it had been to lay out squares of white linen on the cobblestones in the market square. The Marquis' stained boots left black footprints behind every step he took, his attendants wisely wiping them clean behind him in tandem.

Larry escaped the sitting room as well, though she had far more difficulty in shaking off Beckett, who furiously followed her. She quickly made her way past the main foyer and its massive staircase to the opposite side of the chateau, where a twin guest room lay unsullied and devoid of the stench of rotten fish. Though it was clearly a room that didn't see much use, as evidenced by the appearance of scant outdated furnishings and the storage of unused paintings against the far wall, it was still lavishly decorated in the same style as the carriage that had brought the Bedouin clan home. Gold rimmed panelling lay in gilded symmetry upon the tall walls, the white stucco ceiling a good ten feet above them. The room was awash in pale pinks and blues, with canary yellow accents, and in the centre of every gilded panel, of which there had to be about twenty, there were pale blue and pink scenes of aristocratic country living.

Larry visibly shuddered as she stood in the room's centre, oblivious to Beckett's furious presence. "Dear God," she said with shocked distaste. "It's an exploded cupcake."

"The Bedouins are the most prominent family in this region," Beckett said, feeling his ambitions insulted. "They are noted for this chateau and its splendour, and it is no small honour to be given an invitation to attend one of its soirees held within these rooms. Simply because you've stolen the uniform of an officer aboard my ship and can imitate the mannerisms of a man of quality birth does not dictate that you are the purveyor of good taste and fine arts."

Larry slid her hand along the mantelpiece, her thumbnail scratching at the gold paint of the plaster, easily crumbling it off. "Not very good workmanship," she noted. "And there's mold growing beneath the window frames, there. It's unusual to see a chateau of his era built so shabbily, but then it seems the Bedouins haven't been very kind to those of 'lesser birth', which probably includes those who worked on this construction. See that crack in the far wall, there? A missing support beam on the main floor caused that. Give this place fifty years and it'll literally crack in half."

"So now you're a freemason," Beckett sardonically observed.

"I've been in the business of learning what's valuable for quite a while, Cutty. It's good to be fully educated about what you are pursuing."

"That's Lord Cutler Beckett to you--No one calls me 'Cutty'."

Seeing nothing of value in the scant furnishings of the room, Larry set her sights on the stack of paintings placed against the far wall. Most of them were portraits of lesser family members who were long since dead and forgotten, their rosy, perfect complexions subtly covering up the fact that they all had prominent overbites which were, through some skill of the various artists, made to be appear more flattering than reality permitted. Larry frowned, pulling out one particularly large, dark image, its subject one that Beckett, unfortunately, found familiar.

She hoisted the painting up onto the fireplace mantelpiece and balanced it against the wall before stepping back to get a better view.

"I don't believe it," Larry said, breathless. "It's glorious. Just glorious!"

The painting was a darkly unflattering portrait of Priscilla, her beady eyes exaggerated into further points, her overbite grotesquely pronounced. Above her were not the usual pale blue skies and flowering branches of the other portraits, but there was a dark tempest in its stead, with massive cliff faces imposing their will upon her tiny, disfigured form. Despite the fact that this was a rendition of his future fiancee, Beckett felt his stomach churn as he took the portrait in, a sense of doom escalating the more he stared at those black, clawing cliffs.

A tea set settled onto a nearby table with a near crash, and Marcus, the abused servant who still had a nasty red welt on his cheek due to his master's blow, bowed low to Larry, his speech meek and stumbling. "Master Larry, sir...I am most apologetic but...I am afraid that portrait must be taken down at once."

"Yes, I can see why," Beckett said. "When was this commissioned, and who did the work?"

"Some unknown, sir," Marcus answered. "It was meant to be a gift, sir, on the pronouncement of your engagement to my Lady." He bowed subserviently to Beckett, who nodded in acquiescence. "The artist was since rejected from entering the Academy of Arts, sir, as we can plainly see why. He has painted my Lady in a most unflattering light."

"His name?" Beckett asked. "I should hope he was not paid for this."

"Francisco Goya, sir. And no, he wasn't, which caused quite an argument between him and the Marquis." Marcus hesitated, his hand instinctively going to where he had been dealt the blow. "And yet...If I make speak plainly, Master Larry, I am in partial agreement with you that there is...something within that painting that is quite difficult to define. It is as though...as though..." He trailed off, his voice shaking as he cast a glance in Beckett's direction.

"Don't worry about him," Larry said, waving Beckett's glare off. "Spit it out, man."

"It's as though--forgive me, Lord Beckett, sir--he is exaggerating her ugliness as a means to exalt it."

Larry closed her eyes. Her hand left her hip to be splayed wide across her chest in the vicinity of her heart. Her eyes closed as though she had just received a kiss from a teasing lover.

"Goya," she breathed. "A lost portrait,and one that depicts the encroaching darkness that pervaded his soul so deeply, until he finally spiralled into madness, painting portraits of Satan devouring his children. Ten...Twelve...No, no, we're talking Fifty...Fifty-one million..." Her breath caught in her throat, a sigh of almost obscene ecstasy escaping her lips. "And you are saying the Bedouins are throwing this out? Oh, God...If I smoked I'd need a cigarette right about now." She took the tea Marcus offered her and then grabbed him firmly by the hand. "This place is nothing but velvet Elvis, paint-by-numbers and worn yellow toile horrors. Marcus, you are the sole point of light in this dreary palace of pastel hell."

Larry paused, her grip on Marcus's arm loosening.

"Did you say this was an engagement gift?"

"For the announcement of Lord Beckett and my Lady Priscilla Bedouin, yes," Marcus nervously asserted.

Larry's ecstasy was instantly destroyed. Her throat made a nasty gagging sound. "You've got to be kidding me--that incestual mutation? Even if I wasn't being shallow, there's nothing in that whiny, tiny-brained personality of hers to compensate for what you'd be sleeping with every night--or even for a single night, for that matter. Dear God, Cutty, are you really that desperate?"

Beckett stood silent, his brow dark as he brooded on what Larry had just said. The sad, ugly truth of his future was evident in every black stroke of Goya's portrait of Priscilla, the damp in the room giving him a chill, the cracks in the walls seeming to open further the more he studied them. Yes, his soul sadly informed him. You are a part of this crumbling plaster. You are that man with the needy, abysmal desperation to be noticed.

"I wish you'd drowned," Beckett said to her.

"Funny, you could have fooled me the way you tried to get me off that plank."

"That was nothing more than morbid curiosity." He did his best to retain his usual cool calm, but the facade was now too worn by the truth Larry had inadvertently exposed. He was visibly shaken. "It is of no import, in any case, you will be shot dead at sundown and I will be well rid of you."

Larry gave him a winking smile as she sipped her cup of tea.

"That's just being hopeful," she said.


	5. Chapter 5

Longitude--chapter five

Sunlight had given way to a grey mist that blanketed the chateau of the Marquis De Bedouin in damp shadows. There was little revelry within the estate, and the chateau had taken on an abandoned, neglected air, its pink hallways falsely cheerful, an invasive humidity touching the gilded gold plaster of the fireplace that Larry had inspected earlier. Large chalky pieces fell from where she had scratched its surface to shatter into clumped white powder upon the hearth.

The sole occupant of the chateau was the manservant Marcus, his posture proud as he held a medium sized black box in his right hand, his steps echoing through vast hallway that led from the front of the chateau to its rear. He was momentarily shadowed by the vast staircase as he passed it and then underneath it, the imposing structure uttering its usual creaking complaints of poorly nailed boards and a missing support beam. A set of glass doors met Marcus at the end of the hallway, and he pushed them fiercely with his free hand, only for them to remain stubbornly stuck closed. It took two of the Marquis personal menservants to open the crooked set of expensive glass panelled doors, one of whom took the black silk box from Marcus's hand, and gave his peer a formal nod of acknowledgement.

A set of chairs had been placed at the far side of the chateau, so as to give the spectators an ample view of the carnage that was about to start. Priscilla was, of course, still weeping, but she was far more restrained than earlier, out of fear that she would smudge her newly made face. She had been washed, redressed and re-powdered by her devoted maids, the dress she had chosen adorned with myriad pink and yellow ribbons, neither of which colour complemented the other. Her hair was noticeably smaller, though the wig was still far too huge in proportion to her tiny mouse's body. Her new wig consisted of a pile of golden leaves which, when matched with her huge overbite, made her look to Beckett like a beaver peering out of its dam.

Not that the surrounding company was much better, Beckett thought. Having been told they were not to have a party but were about to enjoy the spectacle of a blood-sport, the Marquis' esteemed guests assembled themselves eagerly into their chairs, tall glasses of wine toasting the macabre celebration. Beckett made a mental note of who was in attendance, and was dismayed that the crowd was almost exclusively members of the extended Bedouin family. There was no mistaking the row upon row of beady eyes and prominent front teeth that made their breeding obvious. Only two people of outside note had come to the engagement party, one of whom was a local doctor known for his weakness for opium and the other was a tall, dark, thin man with a pinched, hungry expression. He did not converse with anyone of the party, and seemed to be aloof despite being entirely in their midst.

The fact that his engagement to Priscilla had not become the social event he had thought it would be grated on Beckett's vanity. With no room for influence or discussion with others of reputable note outside of the Bedouin clan, Beckett would have been forced to spend hours smiling calmly at the hideous Priscilla and talking to the Marquis' rather dim-witted cousin Gerald of all manner of useless things--The last conversation Beckett had been forced to endure with the man lasted a good two hours, its subject being whether or not mauve and purple could be considered the same hue. So, despite the inevitable death that would result, the duel was at least a worthwhile diversion. He swirled the brandy within his tumbler and took a sip that consciously celebrated the abolishment of boredom.

Marquis Edwin De Bedouin's outline could be seen through the cloud of mist, cutting an impressive, pompous figure through the grey air as he came into clearer relief. The assembled party kept him in their sights as he approached, his servants bowing as he passed them. Beckett found himself swept up in the assembly's murmured interest, noting as well as the others that the Marquis had opted for a frosty version of purple for the colour of his velvet coat, his boots and gloves and even his wig matching perfectly. While the Marquis' relatives were awed by this example of high fashion, Beckett couldn't help but think the Marquis looked more than just a little like an underdeveloped blueberry.

He was pondering this as he brought the tumbler of brandy to his lips when Larry slid behind him and rested her chin heavily on his shoulder. "Here," she said, and shoved a clinking mess of brass trinkets into both of Beckett's pockets at the same time. "Hold onto these for me. There's a client of Mother's in 1940's Venice who has a thing for brass lion heads. I can get a hundred pounds each for them."

Her breath was sweet against Beckett's ear, a slight peppermint aroma that was not unpleasant. Despite his much better judgement, he found he was unable to tear himself from the intimate pose of her chin upon his shoulder, her lips so close and teasing against his neck, the polished brass buttons of her coat brushing lightly against his back.

"I swear, I don't know why I bothered squashing my tits down with that raw cotton gauze when it seems that to fool people around here all a girl has to do is wear a pair of pants." Her shoulders shifted behind Beckett as she pulled away, her hands clawing at the cotton shirt beneath her uniform while she crouched behind Beckett, using him as a human hedge to hide behind. "It's itching like crazy...God, I feel like Yentyl."

"No matter, your misery will be over soon enough," Beckett said, taking another sip of brandy. "It is of no small shock to me that as a seemingly intelligent being you have not yet fully grasped the gravity of your situation. The Marquis De Bedouin is going to shoot you down and kill you, so what do you intend to do about it?"

Her shoulders shrugged behind him. "Nothing," she said.

"You will simply die," Beckett said, taking a stronger gulp of brandy. He had been steadily seeking the comfort of the warm brew since his arrival at the chateau and was thus falsely cheered by it. He leant back into Larry's confidence, though from her height which was a good foot and a half taller than his own, she had to bend to hear him. "This is a foolish course for you to take, especially when I can so easily steer you from disaster. I can spare you this. They already believe you to be mad, it would be no small effort of mine to persuade the Marquis to surrender this duel to the greater honour of being charitable to the insane. I could tell him I will personally escort you to the asylum--There need be no bloodshed."

Larry's cheek was dangerously close to his own, her arm draped casually around Beckett's shoulder. "Much as I'd love to think this whole idea of yours is because you utterly adore me, I have the sneaking suspicion your motives are just a tad more selfish."

He inclined his head into the crook of her neck, going so far as to allow his breath to tease the smooth length of her throat. She did not seem to mind this intimacy, and thus encouraged, Beckett fleetingly stroked the pad of his thumb against her strong chin. "There has been a most grievous tragedy. I appear to have lost my footnote."

"Footnote," Larry repeated.

'There is only one thing worse than being considered a blight upon history," Beckett whispered. "And that is not being considered at all."

"And you think I'm the one responsible for putting you back into the books," Larry said. A low laugh escaped her, and Beckett sighed into the delicate white flesh of her throat. "Much as I'd love to help you with your five minutes of fame, Cutty, I'm afraid that's out of my jurisdiction. Even Mother can't help."

"So all is lost," Beckett said, bringing the tumbler of brandy back to his lips as he rested his rather drunken head on Larry's neck, his eyes closed against the delicious warmth her body afforded.

"Not necessarily. History is a fluid medium, it's all about how you navigate through it." She took the tumbler of brandy from Beckett's loose grasp and held it aloof in a mock toast. "Here's to hoping you don't have any communicable diseases hiding in the backwash." She downed the brandy in one gulp.

He could feel her blood rushing through her body as his cheek rested on her neck. He broke free from her touch with great reluctance, his face burning as he lifted his gaze to meet hers. "The Marquis Bedouin is an excellent marksman," he said, disappointed.

"Oh really?" Larry replied, cocking a brow. Her green eyes were lit with dancing mischief. "And just where did you learn this? From the esteemed Marquis himself?"

"Of course."

"Really, Cutty. To think I'd thought you a mere ass--You're adorably naive."

"The Marquis would not lie," Beckett insisted. "You've seen for yourself how obsessed he is with 'gentlemanly' conduct. To do so would sully his perceptions of himself."

"Ah," Larry said, moving her face close to his, so close their noses nearly touched. With the barest whisper of movement, her full, blemish free lips could so easily be upon his own. He sighed into every word she spoke. "There aren't such beautiful lies in this world than those we tell ourselves...Trust me in this, Cutty. I'm not lying when I say I'm going make your life very miserable."

"I'm counting on it," Beckett said, now fully delirious by the promise of her lips so close to his own, his eyes closed against the heady onslaught of blood that pulsed through his body as he leaned closer still, aiming to taste that luscious mouth that spoke such intoxicating madness.

"Master Larry, sir?" Marcus interrupted, the kiss Beckett had so nearly stolen lost within it. It was with some unfortunate discomfort that Beckett realised the Bedouin clan had their attention riveted on himself and Larry and had taken in the near intimacy of their conversation with shocked confusion. He sheepishly pulled away from Larry, who in the complexity of her officer's garb appeared to everyone at the party not as a vibrant, strong, and perhaps ruthless woman, but as a tall, aristocratic and clearly insane man. Only Priscilla appeared unshaken, and as she blew a kiss to Beckett with her tiny white hand, her huge teeth poking from beneath her lips like stalactites, Beckett felt his stomach churn in twisted protest. There was a serious feeling in his gut that he had somehow misplayed his hand, and the only way out of the current situation would be under the duress of death.

The Marquis approached the assigned meeting point and faced off with Larry, his beady eyes archly glaring at her down his long, crooked nose. Larry, for her part, had her hand firmly on her hip, an aura of boredom surrounding her as the Marquis bowed to his cheering relatives. "As gentlemen, we both know the rules of engagement," the Marquis announced, with theatrical flair. "We shall each take a pistol from this box." He snapped his fingers, bringing one of his nervous pair of menservants forward with the black silk box Marcus had brought in earlier. "We shall take the prescribed number of paces from one another and, upon the signal of my servant, we shall take our turns firing upon each other. To determine who shall fire first, we shall flip a coin..."

"No need," Larry cheerfully protested. "You can fire first."

A collective gasp rolled through the crowd at this gross display of arrogance. Larry inspected the pistol she had been given with bored curiosity, her bargainer's eye not seeing much of value in the carved ivory handle. "There is only one wish of mine," Larry said, frowning over a small etching on the side of her pistol. "As I have heard it from good authority that you are a very good shot, I wish to propose a further challenge..." She cast a patronising glance towards the Marquis. "That is, if you are up to it...I would hate to see you lose face due to your boasts."

"Insolent dog! I'll take any challenge!" the Marquis shouted.

"Good. Then you won't mind taking ten paces before turning, aiming and firing, instead of the accustomed three."

"If it were a hundred paces I'd still finish you!"

"Excellent, then we'll up the stakes. How about doubling it to twenty?"

"Done," the Marquis said, his beady eyes narrowed into black points. "Twenty paces it shall be."

Beckett couldn't help but hold his breath as the Marquis and Larry stood back-to-back, the Marquis' manservant diligently counting off the paces as they stepped from one another in perfect, synchronised rhythm.

"One...Two...Three...Four..."

"Idiot," Beckett muttered under his breath. "Stupid."

"Five...Six...Seven...Eight..."

"What does she hope to accomplish with something as final as death?" he brooded in his thoughts. "With such prowess as a fortune-hunter, as she insists she is, this act of nonsense is unbecoming. It makes her homely, it makes her base. She's a foolish woman with nothing but her mad vanity. The world is well rid of her."

"Ten...Eleven...Twelve..."

"So what if she has saved my life?" Beckett mused further. His certain doom lay in the sweet smile Priscilla gave him once again. "I did not ask her to do such a thing. Yet another whim on her part, another notch on the belt for her ruinous nature. Selfish creature."

"Thirteen...Fourteen...Fifteen...Sixteen..."

Larry stood in the assigned spot, her nails giving her far more concern than the distance between herself and her mortality quickly approaching. Beckett felt his mouth go dry as he thought on how she would fall, how her breast would bleed as the bullet ripped through it. He could easily see himself cradling her dying form in his arms, her easy warmth dwindling into the cold embrace of the nether-world as she slipped away from him into it. Not that such a thing would happen, of course. He would only watch as her body would be carted away to be burned or buried, his association with her outwardly healed.

"Seventeen...Eighteen..."

He'd had a second chance to save her, he thought, and he'd allowed death to claim her once more.

"Nineteen..."

How strong her shoulders were, he thought, sadly. How regal her bearing under the inevitable destruction. How full and soft were those lips he'd only been tempted to kiss, how pleasant was the gentle curve of her ample hips from her waist...

"Twenty."

The Marquis turned and fired. A direct hit made its mark.

The manservant who had been counting down the paces crumpled to the ground.

The crowd gasped and Priscilla swooned, but Larry did not return fire. To Beckett's horror she scratched at the ivory handle of the pistol and then dumped it on the ground before her in snobbish rejection. The Marquis was furious that he hadn't made his mark. He set up his pistol, aimed, and fired again. This time, the bullet grazed over the heads of the crowd to shatter a main floor window.

"I'll have my revenge!" the Marquis shouted.

"Edwin, stop!" Priscilla shrieked. "You've muwdewed the sewvant! Lord Beckett, please, make my bwother see weason!"

Another bullet whizzed above them, sending the crowd scrambling to their knees. "Edwin, please!" Beckett shouted to him. "I'll just take him back to the Endeavour and hang him!"

"Hang him and yourself too!" Marquis Edwin Bedouin exclaimed. "Nothing but misery has befallen my house since your arrival with that ship! Be gone from my sight!"

Priscilla let out a series of tortured, ear-splitting howls. She grabbed Beckett's arm, her tiny fingers digging painfully into it like needles. "Oh, Edwin, no! You cannot blame Lord Beckett! He has mewely been the instwument of that man's weckless evil!" Her death grip was firm enough to leave bruises, and Beckett pried at her vice-like fingers, pulling away in a vain hope of escape. "I won't have Edwin sepewate us!" she shrieked in melodramatic misery. "We awe to be mawwied! I will follow you on all your twavels as you take me on your ship as your bwide!"

So that was her ghastly plan, Beckett thought, in shock. He took in Priscilla's tiny black eyes, her massive beaver's teeth, her ridiculous hair and her whining, clinging insistence, and it suddenly occurred to Beckett that if he managed to get her fingers off of his arm he'd run from her, from the chateau and from this insanely shallow pool of flesh and crumbling riches as fast as his feet could carry him.

"I must do your brother's bidding," he said, doing his best to be diplomatic and not allow the relief to be heard in his voice.

"My...Revenge!" the Marquis shouted with the roar of a man who had lost his last tether to human rage and had now descended into an animal fury. He ran toward his target until he was mere inches from his enemy and, with steady hands, the Marquis aimed at Larry's chest and fired.

The gun exploded in the Marquis' hand as it backfired, completely severing his thumb. The crowd of relatives, Priscilla included, abandoned their seats to smother the Marquis with their loud, confused concern. The lone doctor in their midst picked the wayward thumb off the ground, and studied it as though he had never seen such anatomy before. "No worries," he muttered, his voice calmly slurred from his earlier intake of opium. "Just a bit of wine can cure this. Or some bloodletting. Yes. Definitely warrants a bloodletting."

Beckett was a few feet away from the crowd, his eyes wide in shock as he took in the chaotic scene of bloodied velvet and lace. Larry grabbed him forcefully by the cravat and led him to the back entrance, where Marcus was patiently waiting. "Come on," she said, her head held high, her brilliant grin lighting up the gloom of Beckett's situation. "We'll make a timely exit."

She gave Marcus a cheerful nod as they ran into the chateau, the Marquis' servant leading them to the already open front door. "Let this be a lesson for you," she said to Beckett as she quickly trotted outside. "Always be kind to your servants." She gave Marcus her most brilliant smile as he handed her a large, rolled parchment that had been tied neatly into a bundle with soft red ribbon. "They know everything about you--And that includes the quickest way to leave you to your fate." She tapped the roll of bundled parchment to her forehead in happy acknowledgement. "Thanks a million, Marcus."

He gave her a saucient wink. "It is nothing, my Lady Larry," Marcus shrewdly replied.

The carriage ride back to the Endeavour was blissfully uneventful. A bottle of wine had been opened by Larry, who eagerly poured two large glasses, bidding her companion to take one and enjoy it. Beckett took the goblet into his hands reluctantly, the brandy he'd had earlier sitting unwell within his stomach, his aristocratic future in equally uneasy health.

"You've ruined me," he said. He took a grimacing taste of the wine.

"Wonderful, isn't it?" Larry said, and he gave her a confused, hurt glare. "The wine, I mean. Sure, the Marquis has his own private stock, but it's nothing compared to the delights of this. If you let it melt on your tongue a little you can get a slight hint of cherry in the mix--Like an unexpected but welcome guest, you know?" She took another sip, the wine spilling onto her lips, staining them until her tongue darted out to take in the errant red dew.

Beckett remained silent for a long moment. He took her advice and tasted the wine, only to find it too sweet for his own liking. He gulped it anyway, in a vain attempt to deaden the events of the day. "How did you know?" he asked.

"Know what?"

"That the Marquis wouldn't be able to kill you. I have a suspicion this was not mere wishful thinking on your part."

"Please, I've stared down worse bastards than him. Even the Bishop Corsicas couldn't break me, him and his circa 1546 thumbscrews. Idiot. As for the Marquis De Bedouin, the facts were plainly in my favour. The man can't see." Larry cradled the goblet in her hands as though it would ward off a chill. "We bought his wine back at the market, and afterwards we took it into the town. It was obvious when we got there that the townies had a lot more money than the people at the shore, so we set up shop."

Beckett took an unhealthy gulp of the sweet wine. "Meaning?" he asked.

"We set up a kiosk," Larry said, annoyed that he wasn't getting what she was saying. "A little wine stall. A store. You'd be amazed how many people wanted a sample of the Marquis De Bedouin's very own private stock. We got six times the price we'd paid for it!"

Beckett drained his goblet. Larry helpfully topped him up.

"We made quite the profit. Enough to buy all of the ship's supplies plus the benefit of a better wine in the bargain. Which reminds me, here's the change."

She tossed a bag of money into Beckett's lap, the weight of which betraying there was more in it than what had first been given.

"Fascinating, but it doesn't explain why you aren't dead," Beckett said.

"As I've said, the Marquis De Bedouin's eyesight is not the greatest." She dangled the bottle of wine in her grip before topping her drink off. "He didn't notice the labels on the barrels were different. He's obviously partially blind. Then, of course, there's the whole issue with those horrible pistols of his. A terrible make, no resale value whatsoever because of their poor craftsmanship. The models he used were notorious for misfiring on the third round."

"The third round..." Beckett said, frowning over his glass. "But he made it to four."

Larry only slightly coughed at this, her attitude one of flippant dismissal. "Give or take, of course."

Beckett paused, his drink now untouched. "He still could have killed you," he said.

"He didn't."

"Pity."

"Now...really. You don't mean that." She regarded his brooding pout with no small amount of impatience. "Go on, get over it. I've saved your life again, if you haven't noticed. God, just imagine, can't you, your life spent with that powdery, swooning, shrieking thing." Larry scrunched her face up and puckered her upper lip, giving a good approximation of Priscilla's appearance. "Oh, my Lawd Beckett, I wish to be your bwide! I'll sail the seas with you fowever and fowever!"

"You have a rather cruel streak in your nature," Beckett observed. "Have you forgotten how deeply my reputation has been sullied thanks to you?"

"Come on, Cutty, it's not so bad." Larry untied the red ribbon that had bundled the scroll, and rolled it open, revealing the unflattering portrait of Priscilla by Goya. "Here, in case you've forgotten what you're missing. Darwin's worst nightmare. For God's sake, if nothing else, think of the children you'd have had." She choked on her own guffaw. "Think of those poor, near-sighted, buck-toothed little children..."

Beckett woefully sighed, and weighed the bag of money in his lap. "You did ruin my impending marriage to a troll, but you did make it profitable. I suppose I should afford you some forgiveness."

"That's the spirit," Larry said, winking.

"I assume your Mother will be pleased," he added.

"When I find her, yes, mostly definitely," Larry said. She held up her goblet out the carriage window, a signal of her victory glinting in the moonlight. "To all of the good fortunes that are meant to outweigh the bad," she said.

She clinked her glass with Beckett's, who in turn regarded her impish glee with practised calm. "You have never had 'bad times'," he said. "What suffering you've ever had has always been fleeting."

"Really," Larry replied.

Beckett gave her slow smile, but she did not return the gesture, opting instead to give him a stony silence that was more penetrating in its ire than a stinging slap.

"You know nothing about me," she said.

"In that, you are correct," Beckett replied, feeling the welcome return of his calm facade, a certain victory present within him that made Larry's company easier to bear. He took a long, serious gulp of his wine, noting that yes, she had been right. There was a secretive note of cherry within it, like a whisper from its past. He studied his goblet with cold admiration.

"I believe it's about time we did get to know one another better. Don't you?"


	6. Chapter 6

Longitude--chapter six

The market tavern was at least slightly cleaner than the one he'd suffered in at Tortuga, Norrington thought, though the women in this particular port were miraculously uglier. A robust, bearded wench slammed a pitcher of ale at his table, her ample hip jutting him suggestively on the shoulder.

"A Navy man, he is a fascination," she said with a distinctly feminine French accent. She scratched the underside of her beard with surprisingly sultry fingers, its thickness ending at the white flesh of her throat. "There is such tension in your visage, mon cher...Visit me later. We shall have un bon nuit, je sais..."

"I'll keep that in mind," Norrington said, reaching for his pitcher of ale. The bearded wench smiled and patted him warmly on the cheek before heading to back into the more crowded centre of the tavern to deliver more drinks. Her confidence followed her, and Norrington had to admit a certain regret that he would not be taking her up on her offer. He downed half his ale in one steady swallow--He had to admire a person who could take the disadvantages life had given them and turn them into selling points. He himself had never had such a valuable knack.

He supposed, if he wanted to, he could easily escape the Endeavour and her suffocating clutch upon him. As they were tied up at port, it would be easy for him to walk away from its stifling imprisonment, to turn renegade once again. He took another deep swallow of ale, signalling to his bearded temptress to give him another. He'd already had his chance of escape and had blown it for the promise of returning to his old, supposedly comfortable life. He had realised too late that comfort had more to do with his imperfect memory than actual reality. If he had it all to do again, well...One needn't be tethered to the sea. He'd abandon his heart and find his way inland, into the promise of the Americas. Into the dark wilds of the north where coniferous forests were blanketed in snow, where bushwhacked men's souls were shattered by isolation, and wolves devoured the throats of the even the most brave heroes.

Sure. That would be a great place to escape.

Norrington took his second pitcher of ale eagerly. He was steadily feeling the effect of it on his thoughts, which were now concentrating on how much ammunition it would take to sink the Endeavour and everyone who served on it--Especially 'Lord' Beckett and, more importantly, to bring an end to himself.

"If you will excuse me, sir, but are you an officer serving aboard the flagship tied at the dock? Are you a member of the Endeavour?"

"No," Norrington replied, annoyed. "I just like dressing up in a naval Admiral's uniform. The whores love it." He took another swig of ale, not bothering to look at who had asked such a ridiculous question.

A thin shadow sat at Norrington's table, and with this imposition upon his space, James Norrington sighed in impatient defeat. He glanced up at the new occupant of his table, only to instantly be taken aback at the strangeness of his unwelcome companion's clothes. He was a tall, thin man with a rather pinched, hungry expression, his suit simple in its design, and yet its cleanliness and simplicity belied a certain higher level of class. He had the air of a gentleman, without the usual adornments so prevalent in the fashion of the region, and overall gave the impression of being a man who was not only uncluttered in his dress, but was likewise clear in his mind. It was an unnerving experience to be sitting across from such a man, Norrington thought. He possessed the otherworldly aspects of a man who had no interest in the material and yet, he was a defining opposite of everything both Davy Jones and even Beckett represented.

"I wish to ask a simple question," the man said, his English perfect though there was a slight lilt of an Eastern European dialect hovering within it. Russian. Czech. "I wish to know...Have you met a person by the name of Larry?"

The man's eyes pierced into Norrington as though he already knew the answer, and James bit his bottom lip, pretending to think over what he was asked. "I'm not sure. I believe there was, once, yes, a person of that name, or something similar, on our ship, but sadly, there was a bit of a mishap." He took a deep gulp of ale. "She drowned."

The strange man sitting across from James steepled his fingers and pressed them against his thin, hungry lips. "Unlikely," he said.

"I saw it with my own eyes," James said.

"Then your eyes are not to be trusted," his companion rebutted. He splayed his hands on the surface of the table, the tips of his fingers not touching the wood. "I have come to understand the resonance of certain truths and I can conclude without hesitation that she is very much alive, and the Endeavour figures prominently in her present. As for you, James Norrington, the resonance is not so positive. Should you continue on your present course, you will meet your death." A tense concentration could be physically felt by James as the strange man focused his words, each syllable hitting a hollow point within James's soul. "Bitterness has no place in the human heart, nor should there be resignation. The past is always trying to invade the present, it is the very nature of its survival technique. You would be wiser, James, to venture into the future."

James allowed a pregnant pause to brew between them as he digested what this stranger said. "So, you know my name. Which says to me that you already knew I was a member of the Endeavour. I've always found it crass for a man to talk in circles." He regarded his companion coolly. "What is this Larry to you? If she's not dead, as I say I've so plainly seen for myself, then what do you wish for me to do about it? You want me to assassinate her, I take it..."

His already pale companion was stricken white. "Never," he said, horrified. He shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together in anger. "How easy it is for me to forget how barbaric these times are. I am not such a devolved creature, James Norrington. I wish her no harm, in fact, she has my deepest sympathies."

"Oh?" James asked. So, a man with a broken heart. 'Stand in the back of the long line, friend,' Norrington thought. 'Way back.'

"One does not come away from a visit with the Bishop Corsicas unscathed," he said. "The Inquisition was quite cruel to her." He closed his eyes as though the very thought of her suffering caused him personal pain. "No, all I wish from Larry is an object she left with Mother. She has retained something of mine that she has mistaken for trash. I am afraid I must have it back."

Norrington shrugged. "And what would that be?"

His companion shuddered, as though speaking of it made him ill. "A pearl earring," he said, nearly gagging.

"A what?"

"Please, I beg of you, don't make me say it again."

Confused, Norrington abandoned his pitcher of ale. "I don't get it," he said. "If that's all you want, why don't you just ask her for it? If it's a lover's spat that's getting in your way..."

"We have never been in such a relationship, I operate strictly platonically," the Czech snapped. "I can not converse with Larry directly because as I am no longer under Mother's employ the resulting resonance of her presence with mine if we interact will be disastrously catastrophic. The only safe avenue for me is to arrange a visit with Mother that does not involve me physically. As Larry and her are so symbiotically entwined it is impossible for me to attempt to meet one without coming into contact with the other. The best scenario of all would be that I see neither of them. Hence, I need a go-between, and you, James Norrington, are my perfect vehicle."

James pondered this. "Sure," he said. "But what do I get out of it?" He let out a low chuckle as he took his ale back into his hands. "What 'resonance' do I get for getting your damn earring back?"

A small, white card with plain black ink on its surface was gently pushed towards James. He picked it up with frowning study, the card imprinted with expensive black ink and paper.

'Nikola Tesla--35 South Fifth Avenue, New York, New York.'

"Talk to Mother, and if you can find the earring, bring it to me at that address," he said. "Mother will bring you to New York. I propose when she does, you stay a while, Mr. Norrington. I have the distinct impression you would find a true home within that blessed city."

Norrington turned over the card. In faded black ink the number '1891' was neatly handwritten in precise, clear script. "What's this?" he asked, but there was no answer but the splash of ale as it was replenished by the bearded wench who had propositioned him earlier. There was no sign of his strange, pale companion.

Norrington tapped the surface of the wooden table with the corner of the white card, his thoughts abstract yet slowly moving into understanding. The card was something physical in his grasp, a sign that he had not fallen to the whim of a hallucination caused by strong ale. And yet...

"A pearl earring," he murmured.

There is a strange paradox to the imbibing of drink, Beckett thought as he accepted yet another full glass of wine. The more one takes in, the less one is inclined to be fettered by the more careful observations of social graces. However, even though one be drunk and feeling especially confident in one's abilities to fool others of their sobriety, the lack of reservation is overwhelmingly, even embarrassingly, clear. For instance, Beckett observed, there was this woman--A very tall, rather big-boned and opinionated creature wearing trousers, but a woman nonetheless--draped most indelicately across the arms of his expensively commissioned red velvet chair. She had tossed the coat of her uniform onto the table before her, obscuring the globe that had been built into it beneath a smothering blanket of red wool and was now scratching madly at her chest and ripping pieces of cotton gauze out from the cleavage of her white cotton undershirt. The white wig she had worn for most of the day was placed on a corner post on the back of the chair, leaving her own thick black and red streaked locks to fall evenly at her shoulders. A set of equally thick bangs fell just above her striking, large green eyes, giving her appearance an oddly ancient Egyptian slant.

"You know, I really do take offence at how you keep calling me a pirate, because I told you it's not like that. I don't take what isn't already thrown out." Her words were slurred as she took a sip from the goblet dangling in her hand. "Mother is very strict when it comes to outright stealing. Much as it would make my life a lot easier, it's just plain not allowed."

"I know who you are," Beckett said, his drunken mind slowed to thinking solely of what her appearance told him. "The ruin of Ceasar, her sharp wit his doom. You're Cleopatra."

"Oh, give over, I look nothing like that old whore." She frowned, her upper lip curling in displeasure. "Are you even listening to me? Listen, I'm going to give you some very important words...Listen, you ass! Here, remember this, it's really, really important." She pointed a well manicured nail at Beckett, punctuating every word with a nod. "Free. Market. Economy. Stock-market. Day. Trading. Sell high. Buy low. There--Now when the crash comes you won't go with it." Her eyes rolled as she imparted more of her drunken wisdom. "You got to get creative in this business," she said. "I mean, take a look at those there." She gestured to the two barrels of vinegar that she had insisted be placed in Beckett's meeting room. "Liquid gold, my friend."

"Vinegar," Beckett reminded her. Then, more woozily, "How'd you get so...tall?"

"Genetics and the rack," she impatiently replied. "Listen--the only thing wrong with those barrels is that they haven't been properly aged yet. Give those suckers a good three hundred years and they'll be a lovely addition to any alcoholic billionaire's ego. By the time the year 2100 rolls around, one bottle of that now worthless vinegar will be worth eighty thousand pounds. Not a bad profit from a couple of coins. Mother will be hard pressed not to give me that bonus."

"Your efforts are wasted on Mother," Beckett observed. "All of your fortune is tied up in the future, you can't enjoy any of it in the present. You should quit your employ with this...this 'Mother' and come and work for me. I could give you a title, as an advisor, perhaps, a silent investor for the East India Trading Company."

Larry let out a most unladylike guffaw at this. "The EITC? Please. Their day in the sun will be wilting before you can finish saying 'financial ruin'. Much as you bank on it, the Americans won't keep paying those over-priced tariffs. No, Mother is a far more stable prospect, and besides, I can't leave her even if want to." Larry took another sip of wine. "I've cut myself on her deck and that was just the start of my debt. She won't be paid off for another aeon or two."

Beckett unsteadily walked close to her seat, his hand steadying himself on the back of her chair. He'd given up on the wine, but what he had taken in mixed with battling wills of dominance with the brandy he had been enjoying most of the afternoon. That he was properly sloshed was not a point lost on Beckett, but this did not stop him from dropping to his knees at Larry's chair, his heavy head finding a suitable pillow between her unbound breasts. The fact that she did not protest such closeness gave Beckett the confidence enough to smile. He dared to caress her bared throat with his fingertips, drunkenness doing little to ease the burning sensation that coursed through him at the simple touch. "I believe only one thing of you. That you are completely mad." He rested his open palm on her shoulder, his lips daring to dart across the expanse of clean, blemish free flesh just beneath her throat. "The rack," he said. Then, frowning, "What rack would that be?

"The usual," Larry replied, shrugging. "You know..." She stretched out her arms and legs and made a grotesque, strangled looking face. "Oh God! Dislocated shoulders! Slipped spinal discs! Broken ankles! You know, that rack."

"The Inquisition," Cutler said, biting down on his laugh. "You can't seriously expect me to believe you."

"Well, the rack wasn't the worst of it," Larry said with a bored sigh. "That damn Bishop Corsicas and his thing against hands...That was the worst. I can still picture Mother's reaction when I hobbled back onto her deck." A dark chuckle escaped her full lips. "I crawled back on her, a right rendered mess, and held out my arms: 'Look Ma, no hands! Ha!'"

The dark of the meeting room was broken by candlelight, the warmth of the roaring fireplace giving an aura of comfort to the gloomy discussion. He took her hand in his, inspecting it in the near dark with close intimacy. He could find no evidence of them ever having been abused.

"I had an excellent plastic surgeon," Larry sighed. "He asked no questions and just did the hand replacement--It wasn't easy, I can tell you, to find a doctor who was willing to be discreet. 2230 is notorious for being a gossip haven, and I had to pay three times the normal rate just to keep my little 'incident' out of the papers. Mother's not exactly keen on publicity, if you get my drift. It could seriously hurt her business if her customer base were exposed." Larry frowned as Beckett's lips dared to graze her wrist. "You know, I've always thought that gaining an extra inch on the rack thing was just a myth, but I guess it's true. I'm living proof of that."

Even in his drunken state Beckett knew her words were mere folly, and he wisely ignored them as his lips continued their gentle exploration of her palm. She seemed oblivious to his ministration, a fact that only intoxicated him more. He kissed the knuckle of her right hand and then turned it over to press his lips against her palm only to find, to his surprise, a strange configuration of lines resembling thin scars. The lines were precise, starting down the middle of each finger to travel down the length of her palm, ending like a strange star-burst at the beginning of her wrist.

"You have been sorely abused," he murmured against the pad of her thumb. "Give me his name, I'll see a proper punishment is meted out."

"I told you, Bishop Corsicas, and you're far too late for that. His sainted self was thrown up to God in 1547. He died in agony, of leprosy. As they say, Karma's quite a bitch."

Her fingers clenched shut into a gentle fist and she pulled her hand away from Beckett's delicate scrutiny. "Besides, I can't completely blame the man, he didn't know any better. To his ignorance, I was as much as a threat as impending Armageddon, and whose to say he wasn't correct? Right and wrong can be as fluid as time itself if you don't keep a strict reign in on things. It's why Mother is the success she is--She doesn't change her basic rules." She sighed and closed her eyes, her arm resting behind her head in a casual, sensual pose. "It's hard to forgive you for not knowing better, especially when you had that virtue so clearly in your grasp."

"So, you blame me for the crimes of your pirate compatriots," Beckett said.

"Pirates? God, no...What is it with you and pirates? No, I'm talking about you Cutty, not your complicated politics, which are never, by the way, resolved by history. It's true, the same conflicts just keep rearing up decade after decade, and it's just damn easier to concentrate on physical things, specifically those things that have no apparent value. You learn a lot about human nature that way, just like you did with that broach."

Beckett's mood was becoming a sober one. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"That broach, you idiot. Don't think I didn't check and found that little glass bobble in the top drawer of your desk, right between your pistol and your orders of execution." She sighed, and attempted to sit up, only to drunkenly fall back onto the chair again. "She gave it to you when you were six."

He felt sick at her words, a crumbling sense of erosion wearing away at the edges of his calm. He rose to his feet, if not unsteadily, his hands grasping the edge of his desk to keep him upright. "You can not know of it," he said.

"Oh, but I do. I know that it has no value, that it's a worthless trinket made of glass and it was the sole piece of jewellery of your favourite maid. She was just a young thing, fourteen I should think, and she was ever so sweet to you, and spoiled you with attention. She was the only one who did--Your mother was too busy entertaining guests and sleeping with dignitaries to care about anything you were doing." Larry cruelly yawned. "And your father, of course, always away from home, which was of great relief to everyone because when he arrived back he was always in such a miserable temper. I suppose it added further insult to your child's sensibilities, knowing how violently he often abused her--I quite admire the poor girl for having the wherewithal to leave his employ."

"Witch," Beckett cursed. "You miserable, evil witch!"

"I'm just stating facts, Cutty. The last thing she gave you was her broach before she left your house, off to her ruin, off to freedom while she left you behind with your rageaholic father and your vain mother. You should know better, Cutty--This life you're leading now, this little prison you've made for yourself, it's hardly going to make amends for what happened to her, even if you have tried to correct karma along the way. I'm simply stating fact, there's little pride in taking forward one's curses."

"How dare you," Beckett fumed, his lips pressed tight, his eyes burning. "You talk of my father, of my family...You are a witch, you can't deny it!"

"I've told you to never call me that," Larry said, her own fury flung back at him. "I'm a historian--I take your life and dissect it piece by piece, leaving nothing to secrets. Everything you are is exposed to me. I know what you eat, what you drink and how often you take a piss. Mother has made me time's surgeon, Lord Cutler Beckett, and it's a job I take very seriously."

She rose from her seat, towering over him as he leaned against the edge of his desk, her formerly injured right hand grasping his chin firmly into her palm. He had been angered by what she had revealed, but this was but a trifle emotion compared to the rush of adrenaline the threat of her caused. As her lips closed on his, he felt his knees buckle under the pressure of her will, his body in worship of her, regardless of how sinister her purpose.

"I'm the ledger of your destiny, Cutty" she kissed into Beckett's ear, the room spinning with her words, his very soul drunk on her whim. "Nothing escapes me."


	7. Chapter 7

Longitude--chapter seven

Early morning. Bright, cheerful sunlight had become a curse as of late, one which Beckett suffered through with particular pain upon waking, the sun diving into his skull with all the vicious precision of a blade. In contrast, memories of the night before came back to him in foggy snatches; pity mixed in with fear, desire and surrender competing, a bruising sense of lurid understanding...He rubbed his face with his hands, feeling a growing shadow of stubble scrape across his palms, wherein he discovered the lace edged wrist of his night-shirt sleeve dangling from where it had been ripped. Strange, he thought, how did that happen? He studied the sleeve with quizzical interest and then abandoned it to further inspect his person, finding several rips in the seams of his night-shirt and no clear memory of how this had transpired.

Of course, there was that grey nudge on the periphery of his thoughts that not only was the destruction placed upon him not life threatening but it had been, his conscience blushed to point out, a most pleasurable event. He rolled on his side and was instantly struck by the warmth that still remained on his bed, the sheets scented with the twin glories of feminine wile and sex. He closed his eyes and buried his face in the feather down cushion she had lain her head upon, her presence lingering even though she herself was nowhere to be seen. He smiled into this sweetness, and though it pained him to do so, gently injured as he was by an odd accruement of bruises, aching muscles and pounding temples, Beckett slid out of his bed to wash and dress, his movements slow as his body railed against both the physical and emotional comfort of his sheets.

It was a good half hour when he was redressed, his uniform only slightly rumpled at the sleeve, his face still retaining a layer of stubble as he couldn't trust his still rather shaky hand to shave himself without accidentally slitting his own throat with the straight razor. He did his best to walk steadily out of his private cabin and into the meeting room without stumbling, but the effort was a difficult one with the rolling see-saw of the ship as it coursed through choppy waters. He rubbed the back of his neck as he gingerly picked his way across the expanse of his desk, a sharp ache just under his chin betraying the mysterious reddened bruise that lay there. He collapsed into the red velvet chair at his fireplace, all energy spent.

A shadow was evident through the side window of the meeting room, and Beckett frowned as he witnessed Larry, garbed once again in her ridiculous male attire, a tailor's measuring tape in her hand as she plotted out the dimensions of an oak plank on the staircase. She re-entered the meeting room without giving Beckett so much as a passing glance, opting instead to head immediately for a waiting piece of paper and quill and ink which she then used to scribble various sums upon the parchment before heading back out the doors onto the deck to continue her odd exercises in geometry. The after-effects of a night spent in too much revelry had clearly not slowed Larry's salvaging pursuits. Beckett sighed, and rested his chin in his hand, his heart more than just slightly troubled at how easily she had already taken the night before for granted.

His meeting room doors swung open, and Beckett became further depressed by the familiar form that entered the room. Admiral Norrington, his hands firmly clasped behind his back, regarded Beckett with little more than only passing respect as he made his way across the room to Beckett's desk.

"I see you've survived," Norrington said.

Beckett regarded the former renegade officer with no small amount of contempt. "Survived what, exactly?" he asked impatiently.

"The night, of course," Norrington said, in mock concern. He twirled the globe embedded in Beckett's desk with a quick push of his hand upon it. "Considering how desperate you sounded, we all thought you were destined to be murdered."

"I beg your pardon?"

"As you know, the crew's quarters are at the other end of the ship, at the forecastle. Therefore, it was quite shocking for us to be hearing your cries of terror. It took a bit of convincing on my part to keep them from charging your quarters." Norrington sighed in pleasure as the doors of the meeting room swung open again, a servant carrying an elaborate silver setting entering and placing the tray on the surface of the desk. "Ah, how nice. Tea." He poured himself a steaming cup of the amber brew into a gold-rimmed pink cup, and pointedly neglected to offer Beckett any. "Not bad, but I'm a coffee man, myself."

"They thought I was being murdered?" Beckett asked, genuinely perplexed. "Why would they think such a thing?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe it was all those loud cries of 'Darling, oh please! Please have mercy upon me!'--Among a few other alarming exclamations, of course. Your attacker did not relent, if anything I'd say we all assumed you were properly done in." Norrington sighed reservedly as he raised the cup of tea to his lips. "We had believed that tall, rather 'robust' officer who left your cabin this morning with his hand so casually on his hip was, in fact, your slayer, so you can imagine our surprise to find you well, happy and snoring in your quarters." Norrington raised his teacup again, only to frown and place it back upon the silver tray. "Terribly sorry, I have displayed such bad manners--Did you want me to pour you a cup?"

The meeting room doors swung open as Beckett and Norrington silently stared each other down, with James clearly at the advantage. Larry entered with a length of measuring tape wound messily around her fingers, the quill and parchment waiting for her at the desk now earning more numerical scratches.

"Fifteen by fourteen...A hundred per square foot...Factor in inflation and duty costs..." she muttered under her breath, completely oblivious to Beckett's longing stare.

"Larry," Beckett gently said to her, his address an attempted whisper to bring her into his confidence, though the point was moot as Norrington knew the entire sordid story already. "About...About last night..."

"Cutty, I'm sorry," she said, flustered that the sums on her paper were not adding up to the amounts she wanted. "I can't talk about anything right now, I'm really busy, I have to concentrate on work." She held up a paint chip she had chiselled from the upper deck wall. "What colour best describes this, do you think? Sandy yellow or puce?"

"Mustard," Norrington offered.

"Perfect," Larry said, adding this information to her copious messy puzzle of notes. Her exit through the panelled glass doors of the meeting room was as swift as her dismissal of Beckett's obvious, brooding affection, which was now waning into a perplexed, aching feeling that sat unwell within his constitution. The infuriatingly dull Norrington leaned against the fireplace mantle with bored observation, his cup of tea abandoned as it had become cold.

"It appears you are but a secondary note to the whims of a woman's desires," Norrington said, sighing. "Welcome to my world."

"There is no such comparison," Beckett snapped. He spoke his words with cool detachment, though the effort was a tad forced. "There is no love between us."

"She seems to have that effect on men," Norrington observed.

Beckett was not amused. His cool demeanour became dark as he regarded the former renegade officer. "Your meaning?"

"Back in port I had a rather fascinating conversation with an acquaintance of your 'friend' Larry," Norrington said. "His name is Nikola Tesla, a Czech, I believe, and though he insisted that there was nothing untoward between them, I couldn't help but wonder...He was so concerned, you see, about your dear 'friend's welfare." He gave Beckett a condescending smile. "There is no consequence to this, of course. You've said yourself you have no heartfelt desires for her." He dared to open a drawer of Beckett's desk, pulling out a small, black box that he knew contained a very special compass. He tossed it to Beckett who caught the magical compass with fumbling hands. "Am I right?"

The meeting room doors swung open yet again, Larry's tall form marching to her insufferable notes, a piece of painted wood in her grasp. She studied it against the onslaught of morning light, as though it held some vast portent of scientific knowledge. "Would this be bluish green or aqua?" she asked.

"Evergreen," Norrington said.

"Exactly it!" she said happily, and wrote this trifling information down. "Honestly, if the colour descriptions aren't clear enough, Colin and Justin are just bitches about the entire project. You have no idea how picky..."

The compass needle stubbornly followed Larry's every movement as she flitted around the meeting room, measuring tape taking in the dimensions of the windows and doors. Annoyed at this revelation of his subconscious, Beckett shut the compass lid and all of its ramifications from his sight. "Larry, there is something I must ask of you," he said, his voice ice. "It appears Admiral Norrington has met an acquaintance of yours..."

"I'm not surprised, in my line of work you make a lot of acquaintances," Larry said absently, and frowned over her notes. "You know, much as it seems to go together well on paper, I'm not sure mustard and evergreen are compatible colours."

Keeping his temper at a low ebb, Beckett pushed the offending compass away from him. "I wish to know about Nikola Tesla," he said, his voice terse.

Larry paused over her notes, and Beckett bristled at the expression of triumph that suddenly broke across Norrington's features. "He was a lover, then," Beckett said to her.

"I should think not," Larry said, making a face. She turned to Norrington. "You can tell that obsessive compulsive freak that I got that pearl earring fair and square. He's the one who tossed it out that hotel window, he's the one who trashed it. I don't care if he doesn't want any remnants of himself going up for auction, Mother has already appraised the damn thing!" Beckett's sudden reassurance of her sole affection for himself was short-lived, however, as Larry's stern anger quickly softened into an expression of genuine, deep concern. "How is he, anyway? He was so thin the last time I saw him, is he eating properly?" She sighed, a measure of deep regret seeming to well from her bosom. "How is his death ray coming along?"

Slightly taken aback, Norrington gave Larry a perplexed shrug. "He didn't really say..." Norrington replied.

"Oh, no matter, I'm sure he's figured it out at some point in time--no doubt after great cost to his health. That's the thing about geniuses, their minds are so occupied with non linear things they don't know how to take care of themselves properly. He should have just stayed with Mother instead of surrendering all his patents to her, he'd have been better off." Larry fanned herself with her notes in an effort to make the ink dry faster. "It amazes me how smart people can sometimes be so shockingly stupid."

She placed her hand haughtily on her hip and gave Beckett's desk a concentrated scrutiny, her fingers daring to spin the globe embedded within it. "I'm not sure about the resale value of this," she said. "It's a bit of a clunky piece of furniture, and minimalism is more the thing in the future furnishings market." Her hand rested on the compass box, which she picked up to investigate further. "Rosewood. Simple design, nice detail with the tassel. What is this?"

"It's nothing," Beckett assured her.

"It's a compass," Norrington revealed. "A very special one."

"How so?" Larry asked.

"It shows you your heart's desire," Norrington said, but his words were cruelly aimed at Beckett.

"Really?" Larry asked. She placed her notes back onto the surface of the desk and regarded the black box with more concentrated scrutiny. Beckett held his breath as she opened it, his mouth dry at the information such an act was about to reveal.

"Doesn't seem to be working," Larry said, shrugging. "It's not pointing to true North. See?" She moved the compass to one side and then the other, biting her bottom lip in contemplation. "Weird. It keeps pointing at Cutty."

Norrington raised a brow at this, and Beckett sat up smugly in his seat, his heart significantly lightened by this news. So, she was not quite so cured of his attention after all, a fact that made him feel inexplicably giddy. A slow, victorious hint of a smile was directed at Norrington's frowning displeasure, with Beckett's pride swelling into such enormous proportions he even entertained the thought of asking Larry to marry him at this very second, if only to hit home against Norrington that he, Lord Cutler Beckett, was immune to Norrington's diseased sense of hopeless loss.

Larry stepped closer to him, the compass held out before her, its needle pointed strong and true at his heart. Her large green eyes locked with his, and he felt his breath catch at the loveliness of her face and the flawless rosy hue of her healthy skin. He longed to bury his lips into the thickness of her soft hair, and breathe into its sensual darkness, but as decorum would not permit such acts with Norrington present, he would have to be content to keep his anxious need for her an unspoken, tense desire in the air between them.

"Mother!" Larry exclaimed.

Her hand reached out and grabbed a small model ship that was sitting on its side on the surface of the desk just in front of Beckett. The compass was tossed onto the desk like so much trash as she inspected her new prize, her apologies to her loss of it close to weeping. "Oh, Cutty, this is fabulous! To think that compass pointed right at her--What a coincidence!" She kissed one of its paper sails. "Oh, Mother, I'm so sorry I nearly lost you! I'll make it up to you, I promise."

Norrington's disease crept into Beckett's soul with all its terminal intent. A most horrible sense of misery buried him into silent immobility, his mouth a thin, down-turned line as she, completely oblivious to his suffering, happily danced out of the meeting room, her tiny ship's model of 'Mother' in her eager hands. Norrington didn't even have a parting shot for him, opting instead to follow Larry out of the meeting room, his questions echoing to where Beckett sat, motionless.

"That is Mother? How odd...I was expecting something just a little...Well, bigger, actually," Norrington said.

"Of course she's small," Larry chided him as she made her way up the stairs. "She was dry-docked near Tortuga for over an hour--What do you think would happen to her?"

"How sure are you that's Mother?"

"History, of course. See these two pillars? Smokestacks. She's used the first steamship model--you won't be seeing those around here for at least another fourteen years..."

Her conversation with Norrington gradually dissipated as they made their way onto the upper decks, leaving Beckett alone with his shattered expectations. Jack Sparrow's magical compass seemed to mock him from where it been tossed on his desk, and Beckett found he didn't even have the energy to fling its ungodly presence from his sight in fury. There was little emotion left in him since all he could feel was this horrid, pressing emptiness that made every breath he took an act of miserable fate.

A bright yellow corner stuck out from beneath a pile of maps, and Beckett took out the volume that Larry had first arrived with, turning with some trepidation to his usual page. His footnote had thankfully returned, but there were now marked differences in its content:

"Lord Cutler Beckett, a slave trader for the East India Trading Company, was known for his zealotry against pirates which resulted in the deaths of countless innocent victims. It is believed that his hatred of pirates began in his dealings with the infamous pirate Captain Jack Sparrow who had freed a cargo of slaves from the EITC when he had been under their employ. (see pages 38-89 noble pirates, heroes, Jack Sparrow). An aristocratic man with a weak constitution and possible homosexual, Lord Beckett suffered bouts of severe, debilitating depression. He died in 1773 of an overdose of opiates off the coast of Malaysia."

Beckett groaned and slammed the volume shut, pushing it away from him. Damn history, and damn his place in it! He sank into his chair, feeling as though the universe had compressed him into a speck of dust and he thought, with as much self-indulgent pity as he could allow himself, that a drawing of a cuttlefish would have been far more welcome.

Her sails were stunning in their detail, the tiny pieces of cloth so intricately sewn that they operated in the exact manner of a full scale ship. Her deck seemed to be comprised of hundreds of tiny, perfectly laid out matchsticks, while the two tiny 'smokestacks' as Larry had called them were fashioned out of a sturdy metal material, several pieces of which had tiny dots lining them, as though they were bolts joining the metal pieces together. Norrington dared to open a miniscule flap on the side of the model ship, and was surprised to see a very tiny, black cannon resting within it. "The workmanship on this model is extraordinary," Norrington said. "Where did you get it?"

"Mother isn't something you 'get', she takes you on herself," Larry impatiently replied. "Besides, the workmanship, as excellent as it is, has nothing to do with her--She's just following the blueprints in her database, and this ship is from our last excursion. Honestly, if I don't see another minute of the 18th century, it won't be too soon." She kicked at a deck board, loosening a nail which she then pocketed. "No offence, of course, but your era is far too class conscious for my tastes."

Norrington gave her a nod, not finding much to argue in regards to her observation. He dared to touch the tiny canon, its black surface leaving what looked like miniscule dots of soot on his fingertip. "So what you're saying is, you travel on this tiny boat across the seas of time--Considering the scale, I'd say it would take every minute the universe encompasses just to make it to Singapore."

"She doesn't stay small," Larry said to him, annoyed. "Like all things absorbent, she expands in water." Her hand was stuck resolutely on her hip as Norrington turned Mother over in his hands, his eyes squinting as he peered at the tiny windows that lined the lower decks. "You know, I never did get a chance to thank you," she said.

Norrington shrugged. "I don't know why you think you need to bother," he said.

"You did try to convince the crew not to put me on that plank," she said. "It's not your fault they didn't want to listen to you."

"I'm not their captain," Norrington conceded.

"Thus, it was very kind of you to ensure their captain had a word in," Larry said, giving Norrington a sideways, knowing glance. "Though it was a bit of a gamble on your part--I wouldn't have been so confident that Cutty would attempt to save my life, if anything he might have pushed me off himself."

"It was my last gamble, and you fell into the sea anyway," Norrington said, a twinge of regret evident in his speech. Mother's tiny, polished rails glinted in the morning sunlight. "I just chalked your fate up to another of my many failures."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Larry said, punching Norrington jovially in the arm. She leaned back on the deck railing, her head cocked to one side in a casual pose usually adopted by flirting barmaids. "You know, you kind of remind me of Nikola, in a very obtuse, not quite able to be mapped sort of way. You both have very obsessive personalities--For Nikola, it's all about how the universe works, and how he can harness every facet of its mechanism. With you, it's a bit of a more earthy possession--You love to wallow in how much the universe is working to destroy you. If you want my advice, I say damn what the universe is doing to us. It's always beating us to a pulp no matter who or what we are, so why bother fighting it or making our best pal in misery--You should openly look for that next heartbreak, seek out that devastating blow because that's the only the way your past can be properly obliterated. How can you concentrate on one tragedy when you have so many to choose from?"

"Sounds like a bitter remedy," Norrington observed.

"Well, if that fails, there's always Xanax," Larry replied, dismissing all concerns with a wave of her hand. "You just seem like such a nice guy, James Norrington. I wish you could find your place in this universal mess. Maybe all isn't lost, you can always ask Mother for help, she's very accommodating."

Mother was still held aloft in Norrington's palm, her delicate sails billowing out as a gentle breeze cascaded across the deck of the Endeavour. Mother was regal, purposeful, ready to set sail across his hand.

"You're a very special person, Larry," Norrington replied. "Which makes it all the more difficult for me to understand just what the appeal of Cutler Beckett is for you."

"Oh, I don't know, he's not so bad..."

"The man is a toad."

Larry deeply sighed, her posture only slightly deflated at Norrington's observation. "You see, that's why I like him," she said, shrugging in defeat. "It's an occupational hazard."

"How so?" Norrington asked.

"Working for Mother isn't easy, James, there's a considerable amount of stress involved. I have to remember what's Gregorian gothic and what's just boring Renaissance, not to mention living in daily fear that Colin and Justin are going to suddenly become enamoured with pastels and...Ugh, I can't think of it. Mother's policies make my job all that much harder, and my whole life is tied up in what people throw away and, I admit, perhaps I'm a little overly passionate about rescuing that which has been neglected. I mean, there he is in that overly furnished, cluttered room where he's moping in his big red chair, my poor pointless, tired little Cutty and his tiny place in history--He's tossed away and he deserves it, but God help me, I'm still trying to find some value in him." She sighed deeply, her hand on her heart. "He has such a fragile ego, and I'm a sucker for broken things."

Sobered by this rather odd insight into Larry's views on relationships, Norrington perched Mother onto his fingertips, turning her to the left and right as though his fingers were waves steering her. "I wonder--If you can go into the future, how easy is it to change things of the past?"

"No can do," Larry said, her words harshly final. "You can never go back to any time you've already visited."

"One of Mother's 'rules'?" Norrington asked.

"No. Just a fact of how she works," Larry said.

Norrington pursed his lips at this, Mother's sails collapsing as the gentle breeze on the Endeavour's deck turned direction. "How she works," Norrington repeated. "Perhaps you could give me an education."

Larry gave Norrington a crooked smile. "Easy enough. Just launch her."

Norrington bit down on a surprised laugh. "And just how would I accomplish that? With a miniature pulley and some ants in Navy uniform?"

"Just throw her into the ocean," Larry said, her green eyes lit with jade mischief as the onslaught of morning sunlight pierced them. "She's positively parched, and she'll be grateful for the drink."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Norrington raised the model behind his head as he prepared to jettison 'Mother' out into the ocean. "You're mad," he said. "This can't possibly work."

"That's what they told Tesla, but he did disintegrate an owl," Larry replied.

Norrington paused as he was about to throw Mother, an unconscionable act of charity entering his thoughts. "You know, maybe it's better if your 'Cutty' as you call him did the honours. He was pretty miserable when we left him back there, and I half wonder if he won't make you walk the plank for grinding his heart into mince."

Larry made a disgusted face. "Are you kidding me? No way." She crossed her arms over her ample chest. "He throws like a girl. Besides, he'd hang me first, he knows I can survive the plank."

"I can't understand why you would want to be with a man who could so easily end you."

"Who says he can do anything 'easily' to me?" Larry replied.

On her cue Norrington flung Mother as far as his strong swing could carry her, the tiny ship's body disappearing into the unknown brightness of the morning horizon. He waited at the railing for some catastrophic event, only for the waters to remain calm, with the tiny model remaining stubbornly out of sight.

"That's it?" he asked.

"Not really," Larry said, leaving the comfort of the deck rails. "I have a lot more measuring and prep work to get done."

She took a small letter opener out of her side pocket and scraped at the railing, taking a sliver of polished wood from its surface into her grasp. "What colour would you say this is? Amber or rusty brown?"

"Sandalwood," Norrington said, confused by her suddenly analytical demeanour.

"Perfect," she replied.


	8. Chapter 8

Longitude--chapter eight

"So, you're going to pout here all day?"

Larry put an impatient hand on her hip, while Beckett remained stone in his red velvet chair, a stack of what were hopefully official looking documents before him, waiting for his due attention. He would not look at her as he signed his name to several orders of note, and he most definitely was not going to answer her ridiculous, if not outright insulting, question. He was a man of pride, after all, and since she had so effectively shown that she had no regard for himself or his affections then all point of further communication was effectively quashed.

"As you can see, I am also a person with a great deal of work to do," Beckett coldly said to her. "Measuring and numbers and notes, such nonsense as you contend to be your 'work'." He let out a huff of indignation. "I do not have time for your trivial frivolities."

Larry sat on the edge of the desk in front of Beckett, her long fingers pulling some of the papers out from his official-looking pile. "You shouldn't have paid that much for twine," she said, assessing the formal receipt in her hand. "Just a month from now there's a nearby supplier who is going to have a huge amount of overstock. You could have got it for next to nothing."

"I don't think so," Beckett said, his mouth a tight, annoyed line. "In case you haven't noticed, we need that twine now. Not some day next week, not next month--Now. As fascinating as the future has proved itself to be for you, I am afraid it is the present that allows for the continuing smooth sailing for a flagship with the added reputation of being the finest in its fleet."

"I'm sure you could have managed," Larry said, shrugging cheerfully. "Good thing you aren't working for Mother, she's not very forgiving of such wastefulness."

His patience was close to its very end, and Beckett's quill pressed far too hard on the parchment before him, his signature a thickened scrawl. "Yes, how very fortunate for me that I work for the East India Trading Company instead, work which I am very busily committed to at present--note well that word again: 'present'-- and which will afford me such honours that Mother could never possibly supply. I am currently, Larry, organising an armada against a fleet of pirate miscreants who have been hampering the future--as you can see, I am also familiar with that crystal ball-- success of the EITC, an employ of such astounding responsibility that yes, even the argument of the cost of balls of twine has little priority in comparison."

He snatched another parchment from the pile and hurriedly scrawled his name on it, his signature degraded from his usual flourish into what the bearer of the parchment would consider a sad forgery.

Larry raised a brow. "I suppose that's true, only...We aren't arguing about balls of string."

"Oh really?" Beckett said, refusing to look at her, his quill messily dipped into his inkwell in shaking fury. "Just what are we arguing about, then?"

Larry placed a long leg on the arm of Beckett's red chair, her black boot hugging the shape of her ankle with a most flattering, if not near obscene, closeness. She leaned forward, resting her chin and hands on her upraised knee, a highly provocative pose that was strictly aimed at disturbing Beckett's cool facade, a tactic which, to Beckett's unwilling admission, was very much working.

"You tell me," she whispered, her voice hoarse, sultry. He closed his eyes against her temptation, and pushed the pile of papers away from him.

"I do not love you," he insisted, his voice losing its cold, emotionless edge, a fact which irked him gravely. "I have no intention of rescuing your honour with the proposal of a union. Your base conduct is your own concern, it has nothing to do with me."

"Thank God," Larry said, genuinely relieved. "For a minute there I half thought you were mad because I wasn't fawning all over you begging for marriage. Ugh. Honestly, a gentleman's 'rescue' is the last damn thing I need, especially after that Nikola fiasco." She let out a visible shudder. "God. Like a fish needs a bike and all that, you know?"

No, he didn't, but his evident confusion about how Larry fit into his life, if she did at all, was about to become even more muddled. "Mother's been launched," she announced. "I got your man Norrington to do the honours."

"Oh?" Beckett replied, doing his best to keep his shattered facade at least partially in place. "And how was this accomplished? Did you toss her into the sea?"

Larry gave him a dazzling grin. "Cutty! How did you guess?"

He narrowed his gaze at her, a sense of genuine calm suddenly washing over him, stripping away all semblance of frustration from his psyche.

Of course.

She was mad. Stark raving mad.

The riotous puzzle had at last fallen into place, replacing his anger with an emotion more akin to amusement. It was almost laughable how easily she had fooled him with her mad ramblings, for that was her true secret--She was nothing more than an unfortunately insane soul who had wandered onto the deck of the Endeavour through the haze of a complex delusion. That he had fallen into her dreamscape so deeply was merely a side-effect of his otherworldly dealings with the undead Davy Jones and his Hades bound ship, not to mention the added complication of his recent ill health and resulting fever. Mother, of course, did not exist save in the imagination, and time remained stubbornly linear. Feeling far more confident in her company than he had since he had first met her, Beckett dared to caress her perched leg with his palm, his fingers lingering on the lovely curve of her ankle so graciously encased in soft, black leather.

"I suddenly understand a great many things," Beckett said, and he dared to kiss her knee, his eyes closed in wayward bliss at the intimacy. "So...With Mother gone, what shall you do?"

"Mother's not gone, she's just waiting for me to finish things up," Larry absently replied. She dared to slide her index finger down the length of Beckett's nose, an act which sent shivers of pleasure through him. "I almost wish there was a way to stick around a little longer."

"Perhaps there is," Beckett said, playing along with her delusion. He gave her knee another fleeting kiss. "Just ask Mother. Perhaps she will let you stay for tea."

Through the lens of the scope, the Flying Dutchman and the Black Pearl were locked in vicious battle, the sea itself railing into a whirlpool frenzy as life and death each placed a stranglehold upon the other. The Endeavour was safely aloof from the battle from where she sat waiting for Sparrow and his ilk to finally succumb, and Beckett's confidence soared. With his victory assured thanks to the binding of Davy Jones to his cause there would be no end to the influence of the East India Trading Company. He would be amply rewarded for his efforts, so much so that the loss of the influence of the Bedouin family was only a spot of bother upon a blemish free future.

Ah yes, the future, that nebulous sunrise that became brighter with every focused thought, a beacon of happiness that lit his way to a large, private estate in India. The problem that was Larry would easy enough to take care of there, for exotic foreign shores were not as socially scrutinised as in Europe, and the presence of a tall, healthy and provocative mistress would hardly be cause for alarm. True, she was insane, but this was of little import considering how valuable her innate business sense had proven to be.

He felt a further swell of pride at how envious his fellow compatriots would be when they visited his estate, with his curvaceous mistress serving them tea, her body shrouded in soft silks, her feminine curves accented by the intricate damask embroidery of the region. When the nights would fall quiet, and they were alone, he would follow her into their bedchamber, luscious silks adorning the bedposts, her skin soft and pliant beneath his caress, the sheets smelling sweetly of patchouli...

Yes, his belief in her tale embarrassed him, but she was obviously not without her redeeming charms. He sighed into this happy revelry, and with his mood considerably cheered he passed the scope on to Lieutenant Gietzer.

"Keep me appraised of the battle," Beckett said. He was more than eager to share his good fortune with his lovely, mad temptress, a fortune he knew would taste even better with Larry's tongue against his own. He smoothed down any wayward hairs that may have escaped from his white wig, and reached out to push open his meeting room door.

He fell face first onto bare support planks.

Gone?

He scrambled unsteadily to his feet, that single word echoing with increasing shock throughout his consciousness. The glass panelled doors, his desk, his maps, his compass, his red velvet chair, his brandy, his window, his bed, his fireplace, his mantle, the moulding around his doors, the doors themselves, his quill and ink, his papers, his walls...

Gone, gone, gone!

A loud cacophony of panic brewed outside of what was left of the Endeavour's meeting room and adjoining personal cabin, the air thick with the distinctive cadence of snapping wood and twisted metal. Beckett's attention however, was riveted to the centre of what was a quickly disappearing floor. A white chamber pot scrubbed to gleaming cleanliness stared back at him, the yellow book he had grown to so fervently hate tucked neatly within it. With trembling hands, he picked the book up and turned to his fated page:

"The Endeavour was a flagship that belonged to the East India Trading Company and was commandeered in 1772 by Lord Cutler Beckett, a former slave trader in their employ. Becket was known for his enmity against pirates and coined the phrase 'war on piracy', a choice of diction that still has political echoes today. Many were put to death under even the mere suspicion of piracy, though their guilt is questionable as most were denied a trial. Beckett's hatred of pirates can be traced to the infamous pirate Captain Jack Sparrow (see pages 38-99, plus the introduction) who supposedly 'left his mark' on him before freeing a cargo of slaves back into Africa.

Beckett's 'war on piracy' ended in that same year where, in an ironic twist of fate, he himself was accused of stealing the flagship Endeavour to use for his own purposes, and was thus branded a pirate. Orders for his immediate arrest and execution were given by King George himself, but despite sporadic sightings, Beckett and his stolen Endeavour were never captured. He is often referred to in sailor folklore as the Pirate Cuttlefish because 'he had consumed so much of his own',

see also pages 31-2, Pirate Cuttlefish, legends, illustrations of cuttlefish.

from 'Tales of the Brawny Sea', Anonymous, circa 1790.

Rumoured to have been authored by the pirate and privateer Captain Hector Barbossa."

Beckett let the volume drop from his hands. The floorboards it had fallen upon cracked and disappeared, revealing the hollowed out remnants of the lower decks. With this blatant physical evidence of his destruction, Beckett slowly came to the horrific realisation that he'd been, most royally, had.

"Lord Beckett, sir!" Lieutenant Grietzer's terrified voice echoed into the increased emptiness within. "It's the ship, sir!"

His senses numbed with shock, Beckett left the empty black space that was now all that remained of his former quarters and meeting room, only to see that widespread panic had erupted throughout the Endeavour. As the battle continued in the distance, the ship he stood on gradually disintegrated, the boards being pried from where they had been nailed down to sail into the air and out of sight. Bolts sang as they whizzed past his head like bullets, doors swung through an invisible hurricane to be whisked into nothingness. He placed his hand on the rail of the ladder leading to the bridge only to nearly fall as the spindles were plucked one by one out from underneath it.

"The ship is disappearing, sir!" Lieutenant Grietzer exclaimed. "What are our orders, sir?!"

"She's stealing my ship," Beckett said to his officer, his voice a small, choking thing that cowered beneath the terrible method Larry had used to betray him.

Wisely deciding that his superior was no help in this desperate situation, Lieutenant Gietzer shouted out to the remainder of the crew: "Abandon ship! All hands abandon ship!"

As his crew scrambled to save themselves, Beckett slowly walked his disintegrating deck, every footfall just a fraction ahead of splintered wooden boards that fell into the nothingness below, only to never reach the bottom of the ship's hull. The masthead cracked and descended upon the deck, only to roll on its side into the chasm that had opened. As he morosely stepped around its periphery, Beckett likened the carnage of the Endeavour to an invisible whirlpool, one which pulled all manner of material objects into it regardless of its proximity or size.

A thick mist had descended upon the Endeavour, but not so opaque as to prevent him from catching the outline of a very familiar dark shape on the ship's horizon. As Beckett approached, he could see she had changed out of the Royal Navy uniform into something she believed to be more comfortable. A black blouse made of a silky material hugged her close, its plunging neckline revealing a dangerous amount of flesh. Her men's trousers had been replaced with a snugly fitting piece of black wool that was an approximation of a skirt. Her legs were encased in what seemed to be stockings, though the material was thin enough to be gently transparent. The boots had been traded for another pair of shiny black leather, on the heel of which was affixed a spindly spike. The fact this spike added yet another inch to her too tall frame was hardly as imposing as the ease with which she walked with such impossible footwear. The heels made fierce clicking sounds as she approached Beckett, her hand on her hip, a thin black, rectangular object held tightly against her cheek.

"Annie? Darling! Yes, of course I've got them, you can tell Colin and Justin that their vintage 18th century deck boards are already being prepped for shipping and will be adorning the floors of Celine Dion's new living room in no time. What's that? Oh, I don't know, dark brown, I guess. No, no, the sandalwood is the railing, dearest, the railing." Larry's dangerous heel impatiently clicked against the remainder of the Endeavour. "Well Colin is just going to have to deal with the colour--You can hardly special order the varnish of a two hundred and fifty year old sunken ship! No, absolutely not, no discounts!" She caught sight of Beckett as she made her way out of the gloomy mist that had covered the ship, an impatient, perfectly painted and manicured fingernail bidding him to wait. "Annie, darling, I'll call you back. I have a bit of a situation to take care of. Oh, nothing serious, just a bit of account settling. All my love, darling, toodles!"

She snapped the small rectangle closed and held it aloof as she looked down at Beckett from her considerable height. "I don't know what you're whining about," she said. "It's not like I didn't warn you."

"I'm not whining," Beckett said, his voice awkwardly fragile and small.

"You see, I got the idea when I was back there, in 1546, with Bishop Corsicas adding another inch to me and ripping my hands into ribbons. I believe it was when he lopped off my index finger with a pair of blunt scissors that it occurred to me--After all these years working for Mother, I deserved a vacation. Of course, time off doesn't come cheap, you understand, and much as your chamber pot has some interesting value, I needed a lot more than just a piddly forty thousand pounds."

"So you are stealing the Endeavour," Beckett miserably replied.

"I'm not stealing," Larry said, annoyed. "I'm salvaging. What does it matter how this ship sinks, the point is it was going to be blown to smithereens no matter the scenario, so I might as well make it profitable."

"My victory was assured..." Beckett argued.

Larry cast a knowing glance over her shoulder at the battle waging between the two black pirate ships in the distance. "Uh...No. Didn't you read the book I left you? There's a whole chapter on Jack Sparrow and how he describes the method by which the Endeavour so miraculously 'disappeared'. His theory of your thievery was much more pedestrian than your alliance with some unholy ghost-thing story that had been circulating, and King George eagerly bought Jack's reasonable explanation." She gave Beckett a saucy wink. "Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum, Cutty. I never would have thought you'd have it in you to turn renegade."

"I'm no pirate!" he insisted, his life crumbling into an inward wail of misery. "You're a ghastly witch! You're a thief!"

"Oh, Cutty, please, it's not all bad, you did get your chapter like you wanted. Besides, it's nothing personal, it's just good business."

He felt physically cold as he stood on the remnants of the Endeavour's deck, a topsail ripped from the mast soared in the grey air above them like a square of white linen. Its ascension rose to a vast wall of white, a wall which, upon further inspection by Beckett, suddenly seemed to be sectioned into parts by a massive band of black. A few moments had to pass before Beckett could properly discern that this was no mere cloud that had settled upon the water, but was a massive, truly gargantuan, ship. Its side scraped against what had been the stern of the Endeavour, crushing the wood, but the huge ship that had injured her remained spotlessly unharmed by the interaction. Beckett's neck was sore from staring upwards, his knees weak at the encroaching power of the ship's bulk. In neat letters, painted where the figurehead should have been, was one simple, incredibly accurate word.

"Titanic," Beckett read aloud.

Larry rolled her eyes at the behemoth. "Very funny, Mother.

"Don't blame her," a familiar voice shouted down to them. "This was my idea."

Alarmed, Larry gave 'Mother' and her unexpected passenger her full attention. Through the tendrils of fog that plagued them, Beckett could make out the figure of James Norrington leaning over a lower deck rail, his face the picture of smug success. Larry waved madly up at him, a wide grin lighting up the grey air around her.

"James!" she shouted. "How the devil did you find her?"

"I grew increasingly suspicious of a small rowboat that suddenly appeared next to the Endeavour not an hour after we launched Mother," James replied. "It kept bumping against the hull so, of course, I had to investigate."

"Of course," Larry said, her grin faltering. "Only...It's probably best if you leave her as soon as possible. I wouldn't want you to get cut on Mother, she has so many sharp edges."

"Not to worry, I've been especially careful. Mother and I have been getting along famously for the past five years," Norrington replied, genuinely cheerful. "Quite strange, really, to be coming back here near the hour of my original departure, but Mother insisted we needed to come back for you. I think you've been unreasonably harsh on her, she's really very understanding. By the way, Nikola sends his love."

"Of course he does," Beckett childishly sneered at Larry. "Your beloved Nikola Tesla and his bloody death ray."

"Oh, you did not give him back that pearl earring!" Larry shouted at James, significantly less happy to see him. "And to think you've spent five years with her as a freelancer--Mother! That's not fair!"

"All's fair in love, war and business," James shot back. He placed a strange, black hat on his head that looked to Beckett to be in the fashion of a stovepipe. With equally familiar grace James then clenched a long, black stick between his teeth, what looked to be a thin, white cigar affixed to the end of it. He took a few puffs of the adorned, thin cigar in thankful bliss. "He was right, you know," James added. "I love New York."

"Well, consider your five-year term ended," Larry said. "Come down off of Mother and help Cutty here find a rowboat. I'm sure with such navigational knowledge between the two of you that survival is inevitable."

"I don't think so," James said, smiling around his cigar. "As Mother has proved to be such an interesting employer, I'm seriously considering retiring from the Royal Navy to become a permanent fixture within her company."

"Not a good idea!" Larry exclaimed, a sense of panic invading her at the very thought. "I am the Captain and the crew when it comes to Mother--This is very much a solo, numero uno sort of enterprise! I don't know what crap Mother's been spouting, but you'd be wise to know that she'd just love to expand her employee base, regardless of what it does to you."

Norrington was nonplussed, and he stubbornly remained on Mother, his elbows resting comfortably on the rails of her lower passenger deck. "I'm not leaving. I've become quite accustomed to 19th century New York these past five years, and I'm not about to give up my business prospects there for the opportunity to revisit my pathetic past. I've already made that mistake once, I'm not apt to do it again."

"You can't stay on Mother," Larry insisted. She pointed harshly at Beckett. "Besides, someone has to drop him off at that island back there, and the only logical person to do so is you, so get off of Mother and get in a damn rowboat!"

Norrington blew smoke rings out into the grey gloom. "I'm perfectly willing to let him drown, myself," he said.

In the distance, the battle between the two black ships had settled, and Beckett knew The Flying Dutchman would circle him like a crow over carrion, waiting for that moment of death to whisk him aboard and serve as part of its undead crew. This mattered little, for Beckett knew his fate was to be categorised amongst that which he hated, his history not one of quiet success but of abysmal, selfish failure. He felt crushed beneath the absurd hugeness of Mother, whose influence had all the terrible whim of an aloof, cruel goddess. "It is of no consequence," he said to Larry, his eyes downcast upon the black whirlpool that sucked in the remainder of his ship and his legacy. "The one fortuitous thing that keeps me whole is this: That I most assuredly, my dearest Larry, I did not love you."

Beckett's eyes stung as the wind blew dust and debris past them, the injury of grief making the discomfort all the more pronounced. He sniffed, and did his best to keep his posture proud while his inevitable destruction approached.

"Aw, look at him," Larry said, her hands on her hips, her voice soft, a lilting sadness hiding within it. "He's just a broken shell of a man, pulverised into near nothing." She reached out and pinched Beckett's chin, her fingers lightly stroking his jaw with such a gentle, warm caress that Beckett half-near wept into the hope of it. "You're so cute. Mother is a wretched bitch for making it impossible for me to keep you. I'm so sorry, Cutty--Much as I would like to take you home, I simply can't afford you."

Water pooled around and into Beckett's boots, the whirlpool that had consumed the Endeavour now a weak current that teased the edges of the last remaining boards of what had been that fine vessel's deck. The massive ship before him sent an equally huge gangplank splashing into the waves before him. Larry, in her impossible spiked heeled boots, gingerly stepped off of the leaking makeshift raft and onto the safety of Mother's plank.

"Good-bye, Cutty," she said, and there was genuine sadness in her parting as she made her way upwards, her hand heavy on the rope that guided her home. She cast a glance back at him over her shoulder, an act that caused her pause when she was only halfway to her destination.

Norrington tossed the spent remainder of his cigar into the choppy waters below. "What's the hold up?" he asked her. He reached into his side pocket and pulled out a shiny, new pocket-watch. "I'm due to leave the real Titanic as it set sail back from London to New York. I don't want to miss it."

"The problem is," Beckett shouted up to him from his waterlogged raft, "Larry has a serious affliction, one that she was unfortunate enough to be born with."

Larry gave Beckett a slow, understanding smile.

"She has a terminal case of ethics," Beckett continued, returning her warmth with a genuine smile of his own. "She can't leave a person to suffer if she has the means by which to help them."

Larry tapped her fingers on the rope of the gangplank, her green eyes glinting with mischief. "Come on, then," she said, shrugging. "Mother won't be thrilled to be off course, but she'll just have to deal with it. We'll drop you both off safely at Tortuga."

Norrington, was less than pleased at this news. "What?" he shouted at Larry as she made her way onto the deck, Beckett closely following behind her in worshipful relief. "Are you mad? You can't let that snivelling little Bonaparte onto Mother! You have no idea the problems his Machiavellian self has caused!"

"I believe the lady has made her choice," Beckett said, standing in front of Larry, whose height positively dwarfed him.

Larry ignored Norrington's protests, her concentration now fully returned to the strange rectangular object in her hands, a distinctive, strange series of notes emitting from it. She unfolded it, and frowned over the various coloured lights this action revealed. She marched resolutely towards the stern of the massive ship, her heels echoing away from them as they clicked on the polished planks.

"I won't suffer another minute with his presence sullying Mother!" Norrington exclaimed behind her. "You might be so misguided as to let this squashed toad onto her deck, but I'm not about to let Mother be ill-used by such an undeserving cretin!"

"Just don't cut yourself on anything," Larry absently shouted back to them both, ignoring Norrington's outburst as her fingers began pressing buttons on the strange, rectangular object she had been speaking into earlier.

"I won't suffer it!" Norrington insisted.

"You should keep your voice down, Mister Norrington, as I'm sure Larry's Mother would be displeased with your, shall we call it, untidy composure," Beckett replied, his voice smug.

"You represent everything of my life that I have finally resolved to leave behind," Norrington said, his face white with rage. He towered over Beckett, his posture threatening."If I have to toss you over these rails with my bare hands to ensure that pain doesn't follow me, then so be it!"

"I should think you would know better than to tempt Fate," Beckett coolly replied. "As it has become quite obvious in these last few moments, that particular mistress has been most kind to me."

Norrington glowered at Beckett, his mood as dangerous as his desperation. "I care nothing for Fate," he said. "I've learned quite a bit in my five years in New York, Lord Beckett, and one of them was to not take shit from anyone, least of all toady little bastards such as yourself." He pushed Beckett's shoulder with rough force, the smaller man falling painfully against the ship's rail. Beckett's grip on the brass railing had pinched his palm and cut it, a fierce sting alerting him to his injury.

"I am so going to love watching you fall into the sea. Give your pal Davy Jones a fond 'hello' from me, as I seriously doubt I shall ever be so near his clutches again."

He made a move to grab Beckett by the lapels and finish the job, only for Beckett to kick Norrington's feet out from under him, sending the former Naval officer falling with a thud to the deck, his head smacking painfully against the wooden dowel of a strange chair, its seat comprised of a multi-coloured fabric that acted as a sling.

Cursing, Norrington instinctively tested the back of his head where he'd been injured, a trickle of blood staining his fingers.

"Bloody hell," he said, growing pale as droplets hit Mother's surface.

Not understanding this significance, Beckett attempted to rise from where he had fallen, the slice in his palm far more serious than he had first thought as he braced himself with his injured hand, smearing his spilled blood on Mother's deck.

"Annie! Hi! Did you get those figures yet? Yes, that's right, four hundred pounds a square foot. No, I've told you, I can't offer any bulk discounts. Well, of course not, darling, it's not like I can just dredge up the ocean any old time to find such quality vintage timber, it takes a bit of work. Annie, darling, I'll call you back. Yes, darling, I'll give Nikola my love. Toodles."

A loud series of bells began ringing, and both Norrington and Beckett covered their ears against the horrible din.

Larry slammed her rectangle shut. She stood stricken as she faced them both, her large green eyes glinting with otherworldly fury.

Quite frightening, Beckett thought, the way she was looking at them both.

"You idiots," she said.

The ship began to, for lack of a better description, collapse into itself as it became smaller, each detail of the massive ship gradually panelling backwards into small squares, revealing itself as a vast, complex puzzle. Mother shrank in this manner into the form of a simple tugboat, leaving Beckett and Norrington woefully disoriented. A soft, female voice echoed across this new formation, a disembodied spirit that was oddly clinical in discourse.

"Dammit," Larry said, her spirit uncharacteristically crushed as Mother's soft voice carried on, heedless of her misery. She stomped her heel in fury, a series of highly unladylike curses emitting from her that even a seasoned pirate would blush at. "I warned you! I knew it, I just knew it...Dammit!!"

"I don't understand," Beckett said to a very pale, unhappy Norrington now seated in the strange chair across from him, his head no longer bleeding as the injury had been slight.

"You will," Norrington ominously promised.

On the far end of the ship, Larry was still furiously cursing, the sound of her fists echoing as she punched at the rails, Mother's continued, calm soliloquy seeming to ignite her more.

"No Tuscan sun...No vacation. You morons. You bastards! I warned you not to cut yourselves! Oh God, I can't believe this! I was so close! So damn close!"


	9. Chapter 9

Longitude--chapter nine

"Cutler Beckett and James Norrington,"

"As partners in the franchise of Mother, please be advised that you have waived all litigation, both future and past, and as such have absolved Mother of all obligation towards your health, welfare and safety. Should a litigation be issued against Mother, you hereby waive all profits, both future and past, incurred by the use of Mother and such monies as Mother deems must be paid in penalty."

"As the insertion of new recruits has been implemented, Mother would like it to be made aware that all vacation requests are to be suspended until further notice."

"Cutler Beckett and James Norrington--Welcome to Mother. Mother is a private company that operates on a franchise basis. She provides historical accuracy and documentation for all interested parties and investors and is open to both government and private interests.

The contract of your term with Mother is calculated on a costs interred basis. As you have opted to utilise Mother's top model for use, and as you are new recruits into Mother's employ, the former sum due under Larry--40, 000 pounds--has now been adjusted to reflect the start-up cost of employment. Cutler Beckett and James Norrington, you have a combined grand total of 238, 999, 008, 756, 459, 111, 893, 008, 090, 641.13 pounds profit to earn to ensure the costs of partnership start-up and Mother's general maintenance are covered. All monies earned after this sum are yours for the keeping, however, Mother does reserve the right to adjust the original figure to match costs incurred during routine assignments, which may or may not include the following:

i: Reconstructive surgery as a result of torture, maiming, general injury or attempted murder.

ii: Resuscitation as required upon the event of near drowning, heart failure or miscellaneous health and outside environmental issues. CPR must be administered by a trained professional, otherwise additional costs will be incurred. Please note that blood-letting and poultice treatments are not considered medical procedures, and all injuries as a result of such methods are heavily penalized by Mother.

iii: Mother does not cover burns, scrapes, bruises or gun-shot wounds. Stab wounds are covered, but please be advised that this is wholly dependent upon the size and number of stitches required. (The wound can be no more than a minimum of four inches, with a maximum eight stitches). Disinfectants and treatment of the wounds are the responsibility of the bearer.

iv: Illnesses incurred due to communicable diseases are not covered by Mother, and treatment for such must come out of earnings gained on assignments. This includes, but is not limited to: colds, flu, sexually transmitted diseases, flesh eating viruses, brain eating viruses, rashes, dysentery, cholera, diphtheria, bubonic plague, syphilis, leprosy, mad cow disease, tuberculosis, smallpox, etc., etc. Mother reserves the right to include all unknown future and past diseases that may or may not be evident upon exploration of their respective environments."

"Assignments are based on a per customer request, though it is recommended that additional consideration for possible future customer wants be considered in all travels. The penalties for incomplete assignments are under the jurisprudence of Mother, and comprises of fines for the costs incurred for the pursuit of said assignments. Mother is not responsible for incarceration due to the perceived thievery of requested objects, as it is Mother's strict policy to only obtain those objects from assignments which have been obtained through legal means, i.e.: becoming public use after disposal. (Please see Mother's accompanying orientation manual: "Why You Should Listen To Your Mother", pages 35,899-35,900.)

"Cutler Beckett and James Norrington--Welcome to Mother's family!"


	10. Chapter 10

Longitude--chapter ten (epilogue)

Five months, or decades, later...

Cutler Beckett polished the button of his coat with renewed zeal, his white wig having been freshly brushed and placed upon his head with care to not set free any wayward hair that may threaten his equilibrium. The morning sunlight was a brilliantly happy addition to his already good mood, as was the comfort of his red velvet chair and its placement in front of the globe embedded within his desk. He closed his eyes and took in a deep, refreshing breath of cleansing sea air and mused that if Heaven were a physical place on earth, this would no doubt be it.

The beautiful song of the waves crashing against one another on an open sea was broken, however, by the tinny sound of Count Basie's Orchestra creeping its way into Beckett's meeting room. Beckett's happiness was marred by this intrusion, but he kept his demeanour cool as he walked out of the meeting room and onto the main deck. Norrington was at his accustomed spot, his body slouched into a circa 1940's sling deck chair, a pair of suspenders holding up his trousers while his chest was covered by naught but a thin white cotton undershirt. A dusty brown fedora covered his eyes, the naked cigarette he smoked poking out from beneath the rim. Beside him a 1920's Victrola Phonograph brought Count Basie's treasured performance back into life.

"This is not historically sound," Beckett admonished him.

"Mother doesn't seem to mind," Norrington lazily replied.

"She has been most accommodating in regards to this latest foray," Beckett snippily retorted. "The least you could do is at least observe some of the decorum expected of you for this day and age, not the least of which is attiring yourself in the manner befitting a Royal Navy Admiral!"

A series of curses could be heard in the vicinity of Beckett's quarters, and a loud bang echoed across the Endeavour as Larry smacked her head on the low bedroom door frame. She rubbed her temple as she blinked her way blearily out of the meeting room, a ceramic white mug with the words 'I 3 my attitude problem' held in her grip.

"What the hell's wrong with the coffee maker? I only managed to get one cup and the thing just died on me."

"Talk to Cutler," Norrington said through the shadow of his fedora. "He's the one who asked Mother to cut the electricity."

"That's because there isn't any electricity in the 18th century," Beckett said with pride. He gestured grandly to their current surroundings. "As you can see, the Endeavour has found her way home."

Larry made a twisted face over her tepid coffee. "I hate the 18th century," she grimaced.

"Amen, sister," Norrington agreed. He rested his arm lazily behind his head. "Unless, of course, we're in the year 1789, to which I say we head to France and drop our bourgeois pal off at Bastille. Vive la revolucion!"

Larry smacked Norrington on the arm. "Oh come on, be nice," she harshly whispered. "This is the first time he's looked happy in ages. That whole Exxon investment thing really hit him hard, let him have his little fantasy bubble of joy."

"...No matter how sad and pathetic it is," Norrington added, the fedora raised so he could get a better look at Beckett, who was standing in full uniform on the bridge in prim pride, his hands clasped firm behind his back as he surveyed what had once been his finest hour. "Fine, I can live without hot coffee and I'll deal with putting Count Basie on ice for a while, but I'll be damned, Cutler, if I'm going to go through one day without a flushing toilet just because you want 'historical accuracy'. Some things about the good ol' days just weren't all that great."

Beckett's calm confidence was irked by Norrington's intrusion upon his happy morning. He placed his hands upon the rail that surrounded the bridge, his head held high. "I imagine your bodily wastes take a great priority in your mind, seeing as how they are the first thing you think about and wish to discuss."

"I don't think there is a discussion," Norrington said, sitting up unevenly in his sling deck chair, his cigarette dangling loosely from the corner of his lip. "Chamber pots are disgusting."

"But valuable," Larry added, nodding over her mug.

"I would rather stick my ass out a window," Norrington said.

"Oh, I'm sure you would, Norrington, such a disgusting act would be a glorious signifier of your elevated class."

Beckett opened the black feathered fan he'd had hidden up his sleeve, and cooled himself off with it. "Perhaps you should also forgo the custom of eating with a knife and fork, as you have been so prone to eating that which you can grab into your hands, much in the manner of an ape scrounging for sustenance on the floors of the jungle."

"It's called a sandwich, you dolt, and you don't eat them with a knife and fork because that's the whole point."

"Insufferable peasant," Beckett said, fanning himself with more vigour than was necessary.

"Marchons, marchons, loser," Norrington shot back.

"Oh God, it's too early in the morning to listen to you two," Larry complained. "Fine. The toilets stay, got no argument from me there, but the phonograph can go." She took a grimacing sip of her black coffee. "Go on, Cutty, you got our attention--What the hell are we doing in this godforsaken era?"

He waited for a long moment, doing his best to stretch his triumph into as perfect a memory as possible. He closed the black feathered fan with a decided snap. "We are going to get a map," he said. "A map that leads to a dead man's chest. Namely, as you are already familiar, my simple Norrington, the map that led Jack Sparrow to the heart of Davy Jones."

He rocked back on his heels in triumph as he looked down at Larry and Norrington from his position at the bridge, a soaring pride beating deep within his breast.

"Been there, done that," Norrington said, dismissing the idea.

"That's the point, my simple fellow," Beckett said through clenched teeth. "It is a map that no one needs any more--It has been a year, by the current calendar, and I'm sure Jack has moved on. That map is Jack's trash, therefore a profit can be made on it." He gave them both a victorious grin. "I have a buyer, an occultist in 1990's Italy who is willing to pay a hundred thousand pounds for its delivery."

The morning sun beat brightly upon them all, and Larry sipped her black coffee thoughtfully. "I don't know," she said. "From what I've read this Jack is a bit of a slippery fish. How are we going to find him?"

"Slippery fish," Norrington said, falling back into his casual pose upon the sling deck chair. "Smells like one, too."

"We have no need to find Jack," Beckett said, waving the issue aside as though he were swatting a fly. He descended the ladder, his gait carefully poised as he approached Larry, and took her free hand in his. "According to your yellow book, Jack dropped off a few things during an excursion to Russia, one of which was, to quote a most irate Russian nobleman--'A map to the underworld that didn't work'. He was quite incensed to have been so mislead by Jack's claims that it would bring his dead dogs back, so much so that he ordered Jack beheaded upon sight. I am quite sure this nobleman will be delighted to be rid of his embarrassing purchase, as I know he would welcome us into his castle as his esteemed guests."

"How so?" Norrington asked, suspicious.

"The answer is simple, as you are, Norrington. Count Ivan Saltykova is the purchaser, and he is a nobleman with whom I have some acquaintance. Word of my disgrace has not yet met that cold continent." He bowed and kissed the back of Larry's hand with passionate grace. "It shall please me no end to exalt you in such company."

"I say we ride this one out and pay Mother's penalty" Norrington said. "Nothing Jack has touched can possibly have any good come of it."

"Russia in the 18th century," Larry said, thinking on it. "Nope, I don't believe I've ever visited it. What's it like there?"

"Gloom and darkness and bitter cold, with a shot of depressed vodka thrown in," Beckett assured her.

"So, what you're saying is...?"

"A complete and utter lack of pastels."

"Fantastic," Larry said, ignoring Norrington's rolling eyes as her hip leaned into Beckett's touch. "Count me in."

END


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